Mum's Loving Handjobs

My mother was only eighteen when she gave birth to me, and we have always been close, especially as I am an only child, and my father died when I was fourteen, leaving us to comfort and support one-another. Although there was never anything incestuous between us, we were able to talk to each other in a more intimate way then most mothers and sons, as well as sharing lots of hugs and cuddles.

By the time I reached nineteen I was studying at the local college, and starting to go out with girls, sometimes bringing them home to meet my mother. My mother, who was fair-haired and full-figured and still very attractive, was always hospitable, and pleased for me, even when, privately, she did not think the girl I was with was right for me, as was the case with Sadie.

Sadie was very beautiful and very self-consciously sexy. She dressed to impress: short skirts, tight blouses, stocking and suspenders: she knew she could make men lust after her, and enjoyed the power she had over them. For some reason she took a liking to me, and we began a torrid relationship: for the first time in my life I was having regular sex: the sound of us mating in my bedroom must have caused my mother a lot of grief, for Sadie was totally uninhibited, screamed her head off when she came, and couldn't care less who was listening. But my mother never said anything, respecting my choice of girlfriend, even though she must have seen the crash coming.

The crash came because Sadie was temperamentally incapable of staying monogamous for long, and always had one eye on the main chance. When one of the Tutors propositioned her she saw an opportunity to climb the status ladder, and dropped me with as little regret as she might have discarded an old pair of knickers.

To say I was gutted is an understatement. I was totally in love and in lust with Sadie, and without her my life felt completely empty. For days, then weeks, I wandered around like a ghost of myself, and nothing my friends or my mother could say would console me.

I couldn't eat and I couldn't sleep. I certainly couldn't bring myself to look for another girl. And having enjoyed such exciting sex with Sadie I could barely bring myself to revert to masturbating. Sometimes I'd toy with myself half-heartedly until I fell asleep, but even on the rare occasions I brought myself off, I felt more lonely and frustrated than ever afterwards.

One evening I went to a party, and of all the people I did not want to see, there was Sadie, looking sexier than ever, draped around her Tutor-lover. I came home early, took myself off to bed, and cried into my pillow.

I must have been crying for several minutes when the door opened, and my mother came in, wearing her dressing down.

"I'm sorry to intrude," she said, "but I just couldn't bear to listen to you suffering. Has something happened?"

I told her about the party. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and said:

"Shall we have a cuddle?"

We'd often had cuddles on the sofa before, so I shifted to the edge of the bed and she slipped off her dressing gown and slid in beside me.

"Come here," she said. So I turned to her and we hugged each other. We'd never been coy about wandering around the house in a state of undress, so it didn't bother me that I wasn't wearing any clothes and that she was only wearing a flimsy night-dress. I cried again, laying my head on her fulsome breasts as she stroked the back of my head, until the comforting maternal warmth of her body started to sooth me.

"Are you feeling better now?" my mother asked.

"Yes," I said. "Thank you."

I was feeling more at peace emotionally: but at the same time I began to be aware that I was starting to get an erection. Quickly I pulled away.

"What's the matter?" asked my mother.

"Nothing," I said.

"Come here then," said my mother, and she wriggled close to me again and held me tightly. Again my erection beat up against the soft warmth of her stomach.

"Sorry mum," I said: and I would have pulled away, but my bed was only a single and I was already backed-up against the wall at the far side.

"Don't be silly," said my mother. "There's no need to apologise."

We lay for a moment, still and quiet; I tried to will my erection to go away, but the combination of my mother's warmth and the length of time since I'd had any sexual release made this impossible.

"Oh God," as my penis seemed to take on a life of its own, pressing firmly and needily against my mother's warm body.

"How long is it since you had any relief?" my mother asked me.

"I don't know," I said, a bit embarrassed. "A long time. I just don't have the heart any more."

"No wonder you're in such a state," she said. "You won't start to feel better whilst you're all frustrated."

"I know," I said. "But it's not the same – you know – doing it yourself."

My mother went silent for a moment: in the dim light I could just make out her face, and the way she was worrying her lips against each other thoughtfully. Finally she took a deep breath, and I felt her hand reach down under the bedclothes and take a grip on my penis.

"Mother!" I exclaimed.

"Sshh," said my mother. "Just lie still and don't say anything."

"Oh my God," I said under my breath. I was paralysed: I couldn't, I wouldn't, let my mother bring me off. Yet my penis had other ideas: so strong and urgent was my erection that despite all my intentions I just could not pull it away from the warmth of my mother's hand.

Slowly, gently, my mother began to work her hand up and down my shaft.

"Oh, no, no no," I said under my breath. But all the time I was getting harder, until I could do nothing but give myself up to the sensations, building me up to the point of no return. I gasped and groaned and savoured the last few tugs before I could hold out no longer: with my mother stroking me firmly and rhythmically I started to shoot all my pent up sperm, fiercely, ecstatically, the wet milky substance shooting everywhere, over my stomach, over the bedclothes, over my mother's hand, her nightie and her body.

When I was spent I lay there groaning, the tension draining out of me, until I fell silent. Still my mother's hand was closed around my limp little penis.

"I think somebody needed that," she said softly, into my ear.

A groan was all she got by way of an answer.

"You'll sleep better now," she said. Then she gave me a light peck on the cheek, slid out of bed, and left my room, closing the door behind her.

When I woke in the morning I felt better than I had done in a long time. All the strain and frustration and misery I had been experiencing seemed to have lifted. For a moment I had forgotten about my mother, and what had happened the previous night: when I remembered I felt rather shamefaced.

My mother had already gone out when I got up, but when I returned in the evening I found her in the kitchen. She asked me questions about my day, until finally there was a break in the conversation, and I said:

"Mum: about last night... I just want to say..."

What I was going to say was that I was sorry, and that it would never happen again. But my mother forestalled me, and asked:

"Are you feeling better today?"

"Yes," I said. "Much better."

"Then that's all that matters," she said.

So instead of saying sorry I went up to my mother and hugged her, and said the only words that were appropriate:

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," my mother said. Then she added: "If ever you need a helping hand again you know you've only got to ask me."

"It won't happen again mum," I said.

And at the time I meant this.

But I was nineteen full of hormones and libido, without a girlfriend, and before long the effect of mum's wonderful handjob began to wear off, and I was starting to feel horny all the time once again. There was one girl at University I had my eye on: we seemed to get on very well together, and come Friday afternoon I had made up my mind to ask her out. Alice was a small pretty dark-haired girl, who I liked more every time I saw her, and I really had hopes that she might become my girlfriend. But when I asked her out she told me she would be happy to go out with me – but only as friends, as she had a long-term boyfriend at home, and she didn't believe in two-timing.

This was a set-back to me, not least because I had begun to fantasise about sleeping with her, so on Friday night I found myself alone in my single bed, with only my hand for comfort. I toyed with myself, at one moment deciding to wank myself off, at the next feeling sad and empty, because wanking was such a joyless experience compared to the pleasure of having sex with another person. But I was so hard and so frustrated I knew I had to come: I just longed for another hand to be holding me.

Then I thought of mum and her offer. Did she mean it? If she did, could I possibly take advantage of it? My mum worked as a nurse, and as well as having a warm, caring bedside manner she also had a down-to-earth attitude towards bodies. She understood about bodily needs and physical functions. And she hadn't seemed to mind the last time.

I wasn't sure. But my cock was aching to be touched: so I decided I would leave it to fate. I would tip-toe to my mother's bedroom: if she was asleep I would go back to my own room and wank myself off. But if she was awake I would ask her if we could have a cuddle, and see where that led.

I saw the bedside light on before I entered her room: my mother was reading. She smiled up at me when she saw me.

"Mum," I said. "Do you think we could have a cuddle?"

"Of course," she said, and she patted my father's side of the double bed. I took off my dressing gown and slipped between the sheets, trying to conceal my erection: my mother snuggled up against me.

"Are you sure it's just a cuddle you want?" my mother asked me, with a knowing smile.

"Mum," I said. "You can read me like a book. I'm sorry – it's just that I'm feeling so randy, and you offered..."

"There's no need to be sorry," my mother said. "Now let's see what we can do for you."

With that she switched off the light, and reached down to where my erection was making a low tent out of the bedding.

"You are horny aren't you?" my mother said, her fingers feeling around my stiff penis. "And so tense as well. Just relax a little."

She began to caress me with the palm of her hand, stroking my tummy and the insides of my thighs. I groaned with pleasure. Then just when I expected her to take hold of my penis and finish me off, she closed her warm hand gently over my balls.

"Oh my God, mum," I said.

The sensations were amazing: gently she cradled my balls in her hand, her fingers feeling all the way round my scrotum, underneath and around the sides, squeezing and tugging, until I was squirming and gasping and feeling like my whole genital area was about to explode in an earth-shattering orgasm.

"You've got sensitive balls," my mother said: "just like your father."

"Mum, please – I'm going to come," I said.

So my mum, realising I was approaching meltdown, let go of my balls, took hold of my penis, and began stroking me up and down until, a few seconds later, I emptied myself, once more shooting all over my mother's hand and arm, over my body and over the bedclothes.

One again I lay spent, groaning and gasping inarticulately.

"Oh mum," I said after a while: "that was so beautiful. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Come here silly," said my mother. So I turned to her and cuddled up to her, feeling warm and happy and comforted.

I didn't return to my own bed that night, but fell asleep in my deceased father's place, and didn't stir except when I was aware of my mother getting up, for she was on an early shift the following morning. One again I felt happier, relieved of a great burden: and this time, although I still felt a little shamefaced at being relieved in this way by my mother, I did not feel any of the guilt or uncertainty of the previous occasion.

And when my mother returned later in the day she behaved as though nothing untoward had happened and it was the most natural thing in the world for a mother to give her frustrated son a helping handjob.

It's amazing how quickly one gets used to something eccentric or unconventional. A month earlier the idea of a mother giving her son a handjob would have seemed utterly perverse. But the natural, guilt-free, loving way in which my mother had relieved me assuaged all my doubts and inhibitions. I'd had the odd handjob before: Sadie, during her period, would occasionally toss me off. But she always seemed to do it grudgingly, resenting the fact that I was getting pleasure whilst she was not, such that afterwards I felt guilty and selfish. Whereas my mother touched me with such love and selflessness that I was left feeling fully relaxed and happy.

Nevertheless, I was determined not to take advantage of her, and to only ask for her help when I was desperately needy. And so another week went by, and I refrained both from masturbating and asking help from my mother. Then, again on the Friday, I spent several hours helping a friend move his furniture and belongings to a new flat, and by the time I got home I was tired and my muscles were aching. After I'd eaten my mother said to me:

"Why don't you have a long soak in the bath?"

So this is what I did. And I was just drying myself and draining away the bath water when my mother put her head round the door and said:

"Now how about I give you a nice relaxing massage?"

This, too, seemed a fine idea, and so, with no thoughts of sex, I found myself minutes later lying face down, naked, on a clean bath-towel on my mother's bed, with my mother perched on the bed beside me.

I've mentioned what a good understanding my mother has of bodies: now, as she began to massage baby oil into my back, I felt my muscles start to unwind and my whole body start to relax. He hands were warm, the massage oil was warm, and soon I was purring like a kitten. Over my shoulders her hands glided, down my arms, down to the small of my back and back again. When she had spent maybe 15 minutes in this way, she eased herself down the bed and began to apply massage oil to my legs. Once more I felt the easing in my muscles; then, as her hands began to knead my buttocks, really working away at all the knots and tensions there, I began to feel the first stirrings of an erection. I shifted slightly.

"Everything all right?" my mother asked.

"Yes," I answered.

Her hands continued to palpate my buttocks; then she resumed work on the backs of my legs: only this time her hands slid down between my legs, down to my knees and back up again, the backs of her hands just making contact with my balls at the top of their journey.

"Oh God," I said, and shifted again.

"Is something the matter?" my mother asked.

"Mum," I said: "do you know what you're doing to me?"

"I think so," said my mother, with a smile. "I think we need to get all the tension out of your system."

I groaned again as her hand glanced over the back of my balls. By now I was putty in my mother's hands, far too relaxed to protest even had I wanted to. I opened my legs a little to allow her hands access and she responded by giving my balls a little squeeze from behind. I groaned again and opened my legs wider: my mother squirted some more baby oil into her palm, warmed it for a moment, then began to massage it between my legs, over my balls over my anus and between my buttocks. Again, the sensations were amazing: no-one had ever touched my balls with such telepathic understanding before, my mother seemed to know exactly how and where to touch me, and how much pressure to apply. I could have lain there forever having my mother massage my balls: except for the fact that I now had a raging erection. So hard was I that I was afraid of coming on the bath-towel. I lifted my hips off the towel to ease the contact with my penis – and my mother reached right under me, massaged the front of my balls and let her hands glide right over my penis. This almost tipped me over the edge: I had to wrest away from her to stop myself from losing control. Knowing this my mother asked me to turn over.

Then I hesitated. Having her relieve me under the bedclothes was one thing; for although she could touch and feel me there, she could not actually see me. Suddenly, at the prospect of exposing myself naked and with a raging erection to my mother I felt self-conscious. At the same time I felt achingly, imperiously randy: the need to be touched overcame all my inhibitions: I turned on my back and exposed myself, erection and all, to my mother.

My mother carried on calmly as though everything was quite normal. Again she squeezed baby oil into her palm and warmed it: then she closed one hand round my balls and with the other began to massage the oil into my penis. The combination of the two sensations, her one hand cradling my balls, her other stroking my penis, was too much: pushing my balls into her hand, arching my back and thrusting my penis up in the air towards her face I exploded, squirting a great chain of milky sperm up over my chest, over my face, even, as my mother squeezed and milked at my balls, over my shoulder and onto the pillow.

My mother continued to stroke and squeeze until I was completely spent. Then she let her hands rest, still holding me but without moving. Blearily I opened my eyes and smiled at her.

"Mum," I said, almost drunkenly: "That is the most beautiful orgasm anyone has ever given me."

"That's good," said my mother smiling down at me. "I'm glad I can make you happy."

"Happy," I said, closing my own hands over hers, for although I was spent I wanted to feel her hands on my genitals for as long as possible. "I feel amazing."

And in that moment the last shreds of inhibition drained away from me: yes, I was lying naked on my mother's bed with my mother looking down over me; yes, my mother had brought me to orgasm, and now I was lying spent and vulnerable. But I didn't care. I was happy to be naked and vulnerable before my mother: I wanted my mother to see me like this. Because I trusted my mother, because I knew my mother loved me and would never laugh at me or take advantage of my nakedness and vulnerability. So when, finally, my mother removed her hands, and when her fingers playfully moved my limp little dick from side to side, I didn't flinch or try to cover myself up, I laughed and smiled and lay there open-legged looking at her.

"You know," said my mother, a shade wistfully: "your father used to love it when I gave him a massage and a handjob."

"Did you do that a lot?" I asked.

"No, not often," said my mother. "Your father and I had a very good sex life, and he always said he liked our pleasure to be mutual. But sometimes I used to get such period pains I couldn't face sex, so I'd give him a massage and pleasure him."

It gave me quite a glow of fellow-feeling to think of my dad, probably lying just where I was lying now, being pleasured by my mother in just the same way that I had been.

"You must miss him awfully," I said. "Don't you get frustrated?"

"I masturbate sometimes," said my mother. "But women don't need sex the way men do."

As I lay there, with my mother looking down on me the way she must have looked down on me when I was a child and she was reading me a bedtime story, an idea occurred to me.

"Mum," I said. "If ever you'd like me to massage you – well, you only have to ask me."

"That's kind of you," my mother said. "But it's something I'd need to think about."

And a few days later, when my mother had once again massaged me and brought me to a shuddering climax, she referred again to what I had suggested.

"I've thought about it," she told me. "But I don't think I'd be comfortable. It's one thing for me to give you a helping hand: but there's something not quite right about a son pleasuring his mother. So if you don't mind, can we just leave things as they are?"