I stared at the page, trying to will the words to make sense but nothing was going in. The letters were just ink splotches on the paper. My focus was jumping around like a cat following a laser pointer. My mind raced, my heart thudded in my chest. Who could read at a time like this?
Would it happen again? Could it?
I gave a dry swallow and tried again to convert these words into coherent thoughts. But my mind kept drifting back to last night. That warmth. That tight grip. The smooth quick strokes and then the release. It hadn't been just a dirty dream? Had it?
I nearly jumped when I heard my door creak. I'd left it a crack open for exactly this reason: an invitation.
"Can't sleep again?" Mom asked in a voice soft as a silk scarf dropped to the carpeted floor. I didn't look up. I was feeling giddy, like a kid who's been spinning in circles for too long.
I pretended to finish the page I was on, as if my heart had not just gone into hummingbird mode. If I looked up maybe I'd realize it was only my imagination. Or, maybe I'd frighten her and she'd run away scared. Had to be cool. Had to act cool. Just breathe.
I risked a peripheral glance. There was definitely a shape in the doorway. A very shapely shape. She was back! She was in my doorway. I turned to face her as casually as I could. Were my hands holding the book shaking?
I held back a whimper. Fuck, she looked good. Mom had her long, straight, dark hair down, framing her heart-shaped face. The Asian heritage that came from her mother's side gave her eyes an exotic upward tilt. Those eyes that always looked like they were smiling, watched me intently, not revealing her thoughts, though her hands were tugging self-consciously at the hem of her nightie.
It was short, too short really to be comfortable. It ended at the top of her thighs barely hiding her crotch. It was also lacey. I could actually see the outline of her panties and the skin of her smooth belly, vivaciously plump but not fat. What she wore was more of a teddy than a nightie. Her huge tits strained at the (disappointingly) opaque material at her bust. Happily, it was cut low enough to expose a generous scoop of cleavage.
I suddenly became aware that I'd been silently taking all this in for far too long a time, blatantly ogling my own mother. Even as this awareness dawned on me I knew I was still staring at those heavenly tits. I just couldn't look away. Not that Mom seemed to mind. If anything she pushed her chest out further, bathing in the heat of my admiration.
She lifted an eyebrow. Oh shit. She'd asked a question. What was it again? Oh, yeah. Can't sleep.
I nodded dumbly.
"Poor baby," mom pouted. Her hand moved up to finger the tiny bow at the apex of her cleavage. I watched it pluck at the material, licking my lips unconsciously. "Would you like some, um," Her eyes darted to the side and her cheeks flushed, "Assistance?" She cleared her throat and clarified, "Like last night?"
Despite my hopeful anticipation, I was still poleaxed when the offer came again. Last night was not a fluke. It had actually happened and, what was more, here was mom offering to do it again. I wanted to tell my stalled brain to give the go-ahead, but found, without consulting me, my head was already nodding by itself.
This caused Mom's flush to grow and her smile to brighten. My cheeks heated up too when I noticed her nipples were now poking through the thin material of her nightie.
With effort, I returned my gaze to her face. Her exquisite dimples came out and she stepped inside my room. Taking a last listen and a peek down the hallway she gently closed my bedroom door. I shoved my book away in the direction of my bedside table, not watching where it landed, instead giving my full attention to Mom's plentiful bottom as she stooped slightly to turn the key in the lock. Her nightie rode up, indecently exposing her panties which were not up to the task of accommodating that ass. Her cheeks bulged out either side of them in a way that would have made an anime version of me suffer an instant nosebleed. This brought me to another "full attention" of a very different sort.
Mom stole across my carpeted floor and knelt beside my single bed. The same single bed I'd slept in since I was ten and which was now comically juvenile for my lanky eighteen-year-old frame.
"Did it help?" She asked, her face expectant, while she placed an uncertain hand atop the covers, resting on my leg. I suddenly felt like a little boy again. Her little boy. She looked so eager to please.
I managed to breathe out a "Yeah," and she squeezed my leg through the duvet. "It was," I stuttered searching for the words but found them all insufficient. Her hand was on my upper thigh, so close to where my hard cock was straining upwards. She had to be able to see the bulge in my bedclothes. "It was amazing," I finished.
"Good," Her smile was so warm and loving. She put a finger to her lips, looked around the room one last time to check everything was secure, and then moved her hand deftly beneath the covers.
I have no idea how we came to this place in our relationship. When this all began, last night, I can't rightly remember what words were said or what looks were exchanged. It all felt inconsequential at the time. Until it wasn't. A normal conversation between mother and son. A very beautiful mother and a secretly perverted and always horny son, certainly, but there was nothing in it that suggested we'd end up here.
She'd asked why I was up so late and I'd said I couldn't sleep. She'd made some classic mom suggestions: Read a book (tried that), drink warm milk (I'm eighteen), count some sheep (seriously?). Somehow the topic had gotten on to what, ahem, she'd heard, a lot of teenage boys, ahem, did before they went to sleep. It was supposed to make you feel sleepy after. It had mortified me, my blush turning me so beetroot she'd felt compelled to console me. Supportive words were said and supportive touches were made. In the process her hand had bumped a certain part of me, my eyes had lingered too long on a certain part of her, and the next thing I knew she was offering something I wasn't sure she was actually offering and I was agreeing to it without actually saying it in so many words. Does that make sense? Then, like now, there was the feeling of a warm hand slipping under the covers and traveling up my leg. The shock. The mind-numbing disbelief as my mother's own hand burrowed through the flap at the front of my sleeping shorts and wrapped around my rigid pole. I'd not lasted long. How could I? It was all so sudden, so unexpected. Just a few pumps from that soft loving hand and I was spurting like a geyser, drenching my sleeping shorts. But it was good. Epic, in fact. Just that simple little handjob, performed by my own mother, trumped any other experience in my, admittedly, unimpressive sexual history.
