Relieving My Mom

I was 25, my mom must have been a little over 50.

My parents had divorced early during the year before I finished college. I had moved back in with my mom after graduation, just until I could get a decent job and a place of my own. I was on good terms with both of my parents, but I was always closer with my mom. Since she had gotten the house in the divorce, moving back into my old bedroom was the obvious choice. My sports posters and old computer were still set up in there. My video game consoles were in there too, although the TV had been transplanted into what was now just my mom's bedroom. But that was fine; I'd rather watch TV in the living room with my mom, and I still had my computer in my bedroom for games.

After I moved back in, it only took a few days before I noticed that Mom didn't seem entirely herself. It seemed like she was a little depressed or something. She moved and spoke slightly more slowly, and she smiled less (though she still always smiled a little when she would see me).

I finally asked her about it and she told me that she knows what's wrong, and she knows how to fix it, and that it's nothing I need to worry about. So I stopped worrying, or at least I tried. But after maybe another week of the same thing, I had to press her about it. I was concerned about my mom.

"John, you don't want to know," she said to me, sounding almost a little stern, using my regular name instead of Johnny. "It's kinda gross," her tone softening, and it sounded like she was embarrassed.

We were sitting next to each other on the living room couch with Mom to my right. We were close enough that our bare legs were touching at the knee. Mom was wearing a long floral nightshirt and I assumed panties underneath. I was wearing boxers and a green t-shirt.

But what was she talking about? What could possibly be gross?

"Mom, I know you've been kinda out of sorts or whatever, but I haven't noticed anything gross." I looked at her questioningly, and she looked back blankly. "Or weird," I added, trying to reassure her.

_____

"Johnny, it's the solution to the problem that's gross. Okay? Can we un-pause the movie now?" Mom reached across me for the remote, and although I could have moved it out of her reach, I allowed her to grab it and resume the movie. We were watching Shrek, one of our favorites from when I was a kid. On the big living room TV, Shrek continued his explanation about how ogres are like onions.

"Women are a lot like onions, too, you know," Mom said, placing her feet on the coffee table in front of us, her shirt riding up just enough to expose the color of her panties -- Faded Pink. I looked over at her from the corner of my eye. She adjusted her shirt so the hem was at her mid-thigh, hiding her panties.

"I mean the layers. We're complicated. We don't smell bad. Uh, unless you're gay," she joked.

"It's okay, Mom. I'm not gay," I chuckled. "Not that there's anything wrong with that..." I added, prompting her to say:

"Of course not! One's personal sexual preference is no one's business but their own!" she replied correctly, quoting the old Seinfeld episode where a college reporter mistakenly thinks Jerry and George are gay together.

We laughed for a moment. But my mind returned to my mom's problem, and its mysterious solution. What could be so bad that she didn't even want to tell me, her own son? I literally came out of her body. I'm a part of her.

"So what's the solution? I don't care if it's gross, I'm just worried... is it something horrible?" I asked her seriously, but she just started laughing.

"It's nothing horrible!" she emphatically reassured me. Then she sighed loudly and looked away from me. "It's sexual, okay?" she finally admitted, and I immediately understood.

______

I didn't ever like thinking about it, or hearing it, or being in the same house at the same time... But when my mom and dad were still together, which was throughout my whole life up until very recently... I overheard, on a disturbingly regular basis, what could only have been the two of them having sex. Bedframe creaking, headboard banging against the wall, all kinds of grunts and moans. I didn't have any siblings, so I lived with this horror alone.

And I do mean on a regular basis. Almost always daily, sometimes more than that. And my mom usually sounded pretty satisfied.

So if Mom was used to that type of stimulation on such a frequent basis, and if it suddenly stopped after the divorce, I could understand why that might affect her.

I've always been close with my mom (duh). But maybe it was more than it is with most boys.

From a young age I always wanted to be near her, and that never really subsided as I got older. Mom didn't seem to mind. It seemed like any mom's dream to have her baby boy remain cuddly and affectionate with her. And when I started to get older, at age 13, it was Mom who stopped holding my hand in the grocery store, not the other way around.

Walking through the store, trailing behind her, I couldn't even begin to understand why she had pulled her hand away from mine. She hadn't done it hastily or in a nasty way, but still. I could barely speak when she would ask me about things I'd want for dinner, to help her gauge what ingredients to add to the shopping cart. I felt so awful, but she just kept talking and asking me things as if everything was fine.

By the time we got to the car, I felt like I was about to cry. It had really affected me that much. But as soon as we were both settled in the front seats, Mom immediately took my hand in hers and looked kindly and meaningfully at me. She placed her other hand on top of mine. Her touch and her warmth immediately reassured me that everything was going to be okay.

She explained to me then that people might think it would look unusual for a woman to be seen holding hands with her teenage son. She explained that, unlike me, most of her friends' kids had quit letting them hold their hands around age 10 or 11.

I couldn't understand that. Maybe they just didn't love their moms as much as I loved mine. But I agreed that if it would be awkward for her, we wouldn't hold hands in public anymore. At least not regularly.

She held my hand the whole drive home.

Ever since I had the capacity to gauge the attractiveness of women, I've always thought my Mom was beautiful.

When I moved back in with her after college, she was a little over 50 years old, but I would have guessed she was under 40 if I hadn't known her true age.

Mom was of a relatively average weight, but she had a big bubbly butt, and breasts that seemed almost a little too large for her body. I hadn't normally thought about any of this while growing up, but my friends teased me about my mom's body constantly. It never really bothered me - I mean, I didn't love hearing from guys my age about how hot my mom was, but I never really disagreed either. Of course, I never told them that. I just told them to shut up.

____

The movie played on.

"I think I get it," I finally said to my mom. She looked over at me from the corner of her eye. "Do you?" she raised one eyebrow.

"Sure," I replied confidently. "Before the divorce, you were getting it on the regular from Dad," I said nonchalantly.

"Oh, for God sakes, John," My mom scoffed and looked away but she wasn't angry, more just embarrassed.

"And now you're not!" I teased her. She groaned loudly, looking ahead but clearly not paying attention to the movie.

"So," I continued, still teasing her, "Now that... that... isn't not happening anymore, you're a little frustrated." Mom's blank face stared ahead at the TV, where Shrek, Donkey, and Fiona were now making their way to Lord Farquaad's castle.

"A little backed up, as it were," I continued teasing her.

"Women don't get backed up, John," Mom said. Normally she called me Johnny, but sometimes she used my normal name in a jokingly formal way. Other times, she used my normal name in a very serious and not-joking way.

I rolled my eyes. "You know about dating apps, right? There's Tinder, there's other ones too," my tone shifted a little bit from totally joking, to just mostly totally joking.

Mom snorted. "I'm a little old for that, honey," she sighed.

Now I snorted. I quickly fished my phone out of my pocket and opened Tinder. I was an avid user, at least before that point, after all.

"You wanna bet?" I said, holding my phone in front of me so we could both see. I went into the app preferences, and then to the acceptable age ranges. I set the minimum age to 45, and the maximum age to 60, then exited the preferences and got to swiping. I had a point to prove to my mom.

The first woman must have been around 50, close to Mom's age. Not nearly as pretty as mom. I swiped left.

The next I would have gauged around 35, even though the minimum age was set to 45. Regardless, she was still nowhere near as beautiful as my mom. I swiped left again.

The third profile we came across was a lady who actually looked a whole lot like my mom. She looked to be around the same age, had similar facial features, but she appeared to be a little heavier. Even so, she was very pretty, almost on Mom's level. I swiped right.

"See? All these chicks are doing it, you can too!" I encouraged her.

Mom laughed. "Chicks. Right. Why'd you swipe differently on that last one?"

"So, on Tinder, you swipe left if you don't like, and you swipe right if you do like," I explained as I put my phone back in my pocket.

"You liked her?" I looked over at my mom and her face was bright red.

"Oh, yeah. Didn't you think she was pretty?" I asked nonchalantly.

"She is, but honey, she's my age," Mom argued.

I shrugged. "Why would that be a problem? Besides, she'll probably never message me anyway. She'll only see I liked her if she swipes right on me too." And then my phone dinged from my pocket: the Tinder notification sound.

Mom's eyebrows went up. "You gonna get that?" she grinned at me.

I fished my phone out of my pocket. I opened my notification area, holding my phone up in front of us both to see:

_____

"Cassandra: Hey cutie." It was her.

"Should we reply?" I asked my mom, raising my eyebrows suggestively, but still jokingly.

"Are there other pictures of her?" Mom asked.

I opened Cassandra's profile and went to her pictures. I started scrolling through them. She had about a dozen pictures of herself on there: Cassandra at the gym, Cassandra at the aquarium, Cassandra taking a selfie in her bathroom. Normal girl stuff.

"Women my age really do this kind of stuff?" Mom asked incredulously. Since we were looking at my phone together, we had moved a little closer to each other and our thighs were touching now. This was not unusual for us, but for the first time ever, I noticed how truly soft and warm her body felt against mine.

I grinned at my mom. "Let's reply," I said. She smiled and narrowed her lovely eyes at me playfully. Had her eyes always been so blue? How could they be so bright even with her eyelids partially shut?

To her side, she fumbled for the remote and muted the movie. Shrek and company silently approached the castle town.

"So help me out here. What kind of reply would a pretty lady like you want to get from a handsome young guy like me?" I asked my mom. We both looked ahead at the Tinder messaging screen.

"A guy like you, huh," Mom wondered out loud. We were close enough that I could detect the warmth of her breath. I felt it as I breathed in through my nose as she was speaking.

"Okay, well... let's compliment her pictures," Mom suggested.

"Okay," I agreed. "She is really pretty."

"She looks a lot like me," Mom remarked as I began typing.

"Johnny: Hey Cassandra. I hope you don't mind me swiping right, but I only do that with dangerously beautiful women." I sent the message, and my mom snorted. I breathed in her warm breath through my nose. "Now I know you're full of shit," she chuckled, and she pushed her hair behind her ear.

My phone dinged again. There was no text, just a picture: a woman's body, the picture taken from her point of view. She was laying on top of a neatly made bed, and she was completely naked. Her breasts were large, her cleavage taking up the lower half of the image. Her left nipple partially visible at the edge of the photo. Her vagina was not visible from the angle the picture was taken, but her pubic area was closely shaved.

I was only wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt. And the boxer shorts were tight-fitting enough that if I were to get an erection, it would be almost impossible to hide it. Which was a problem, because I tend to get excited easily, and there was a rather unexpected nude photo of a very attractive older woman in front of me.

Sensing my penis entering the beginning stages, I quickly adjusted my position and tried to sort of tuck my wiener up and to the left ("Up, and to the left"), into the corner where my left thigh met my groin.

But Mom noticed. "Johnny, you can't be serious," she laughed under her breath as she spoke. "She barely even showed anything! And she's so old!" She glanced down at my crotch and her gaze lingered there. I checked myself and saw that the outline of the head of my penis could be seen through my boxers. For some reason, knowing my mom was looking only made the problem worse: the head of my penis visibly swelled. As it did, Mom breathed in sharply and looked away.

"It's involuntary!" I argued. "But, uh, sorry you had to see that," I said, adjusting myself again to try to minimize visibility. "And she's not old, Mom. I would totally bang her. She's hot!" I said truthfully.

"Uh-huh. Well, whatever. Shouldn't you reply?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Probably. What should we say now?" I asked my mom.

"Oh. I thought you'd wanna reply with a picture?" Mom asked, glancing down at my groin. "You know, since she sent one," she explained innocently, but her eyes were once again on my boxer shorts.

_____

I pointed my phone down at my torso and crotch, then pressed the "Camera" button in the Tinder app. Mom leaned closer to see the image more clearly.

My penis was still visible, and still partially erect. It pointed almost directly up, facing towards the camera, laying flat against my torso. Mom scooted closer still, then she adjusted her position so that she could do something I would never forget, even after all that happened later: still looking through the screen, Mom reached around and gently put her hand over my penis, pushing it so it was pointing off to the side, giving the camera a much clearer view of it.

"I think it looks better like that," Mom remarked. "Actually," she reconsidered, and she again laid her hand over my penis, this time giving the head a quick squeeze before taking her hand away.

"There!" Mom exclaimed happily. My penis had become noticeably bigger from my mom's touch. My body and my mind were buzzing with a new and almost frightening excitement. I did my best to stay calm.

I snapped a picture. I was now at least two thirds of the way erect. The outline was starkly visible, my boxers stretching to make room for the additional mass.

"Look good?" I asked my mom, holding my phone up for us both to see, and my voice sounded strange.

"Mm-hm," Mom confirmed, nodding her head slightly.

I sent the picture to Cassandra, but I included a message with it: "I'm here with a girlfriend. Hope you don't mind. We think you're really hot."

I explained to Mom that I wanted Cassandra to know it wasn't just me here seeing any pictures she was sending to me. I believe the term is "Informed consent."

"A perfect gentleman," Mom said sweetly, and she quickly turned to me and kissed me on the cheek. As is tradition, I turned and kissed her cheek too right after. I felt the texture of the fabric of my boxers as the head of my penis pushed its way farther from its base. I was still growing harder.

"That probably scared her off, but I think I proved my point," I said proudly to my mother. But Cassandra replied almost immediately:

"What's that in your pants? Can your girlfriend take it out so I can see?"

_____

We sat in silence for several seconds, then Mom spoke:

"Well? Don't leave her hanging, John," she said slyly. "I'll look away!" she added playfully.

"But she wanted my girlfriend to take it out." Did I really just say that? I felt like I was watching myself in some strange and wonderful dream. My heart beat rapidly and I anxiously waited for Mom to reply.

"Can you take a video on that thing? To send to Cassandra?" Mom asked. I told her I could. Oh my god.

"Okay, babe. Tell me when it's recording," Mom said. I always loved it when she called me babe.

I explained to her that the "Bump" sound would mean that the recording started. She understood. I pressed the button: Bump!

I watched through my phone's screen. My mom's hand could be seen gracefully drifting across the picture from right to left. Her hands are slender and feminine, and her nails were painted white. She hooked her fingertips underneath the fabric of my boxers, inches from the tip of my penis. She slowly peeled the fabric away from my penis, gradually exposing it starting from the head and moving down the shaft. As she did this, the backs of her fingers briefly graced the underside of my penis, and it twitched noticeably from the contact. Once she had freed it entirely, she tucked the fabric of my boxers into the crease between my balls and my right thigh, AKA my right ballcrack.

Finally, she wrapped her fingers lightly around the base and held me upright, giving the camera a perfect view of my penis, which was now fully hard. It twitched a few times in her gentle grip, and then I turned off the video recording: Bump!

Mom took her hand away, giving my penis one gentle squeeze at the base before she did. Mom leaned back on the cushions next to me. "Can I see before we send it?" she asked.

I replayed it and we both watched the short video of her exposing me to the camera.

"Do you think she'll like it?" I asked my mom nervously. My penis throbbed and twitched in my lap.

"I think so," Mom said thoughtfully. "I'd be over the moon if a guy like you sent me a video like that."

With my phone still held in front of us so we both could see, I started a screen recording and returned to the Tinder app. While recording I quickly sent the video to Cassandra, then reopened the video and played it once more. Once it ended, I stopped the screen recording.

"Honey, what are you doing?" Mom asked quietly as I texted her the screen recorded video. Her phone dinged a few seconds later.

She laughed lightly through her nose as she picked up her phone. Her eyes widened and her face went blank as the video played in front of her.

"Can I keep this?" she asked, her eyes still wide, her focus bent towards the video that played in her hand.

"I want you to," I answered her, and again my voice sounded strange.

"Oh, baby," Mom groaned as the video played again.

She set her phone down and leaned back next to me again. She rested her head on my shoulder, her soft brown hair flowing over my skin.

Cassandra replied: "Beautiful cock. Look what you guys did to me."

Attached was a video showing Cassandra's bare vagina being rubbed slowly over the clitoris. Her feminine fingers traveled down and dragged up from her opening back to her clit. She pulled her fingers away from herself and opened the space between them. Sticky wetness spiderwebbed between them. The video ended and began playing again.

"Should we send another video?" Mom asked me. She crossed her legs at the knee, tucking her nightshirt into her crotch.

"I think so," I replied.

"Start recording," She said. I opened the camera, centered the lens on my penis, and pressed the record button: Bump!

Mom's hand entered from the right side of the frame. She took my penis and held it up, her grip about an inch below the head. She began slowly stroking me. To get a better grip, she had turned her body partially towards me, and her left breast pressed against against my right arm. As she moved, I could feel her nipple hardening.