“Doesn’t that hurt,” I whispered, pressing my lips to her ear.
She shook her head. “He loves to be squeezed,” she said, her breath in my ear. “Wanna try?”
I nodded, nervous. Her breath in my ear, she said, “Tight, sweetheart, like I’m doing.”
I nodded. And I watched as she took my wrist, pulling me toward him, letting go. Tentatively, I wrapped my hand around him, knowing the moment his head stopped moving that he knew something had changed, knew that it was no longer my mother’s hand on him. But just as he tried to lift his head, to open his eyes, she moved to him, kissing him, pushing him back onto his pillow. His one hand was trapped between them, the other, though, began to move. She either saw it or she anticipated it; either way she intercepted him, slipping her fingers into his, holding him still as she whispered something to him.
I still had a hold of him, but I was too nervous to move, too nervous to breathe. “Relax, baby,” she said, her voice now reaching me. She moved now, putting her lips to his ear, whispering to him. And as the last of the tension left him, I began to breathe again, my gaze going to my hand. He’d begun to soften some, and I squeezed him, tentatively, not too hard. It felt like a hard slab of meat in my hand, heavy, drooping over my fist, a string of clear liquid stretching from the hole at the tip to his stomach. I squeezed him again, harder, feeling the weight of him, his resulting moan encouraging me.
My mother leaned up now, raking her nails over his chest, her gaze going to my hand. And I watched, fascinated, as she reached out a finger, catching the stringy lubricant, wrapping it around her finger and bringing it up to her mouth, sucking it in, her gaze on mine, her eyes bright with mischief.
I made a face. She shook her head and reached down, wiping her finger over the tip, gathering the drop that remained there and bringing it up, wiping it on my lips. I ran my tongue over them, pulling it in, tasting it, smiling at her.
She shook her head, returning my smile. She reached down then, putting her hand over mine and squeezing. He moaned long and low, his penis pulsing in my hand, the head flaring, the shaft gathering length as well as girth. She removed my hand and re-positioned it, closer to the tip, just below the head and again squeezed me, moving me slowly up and down, further than looked comfortable to him, the skin stretching as we neared the base, his hair brushing against my skin.
I shook my head. “Doesn’t that hurt him?” I whispered.
She shook her head, pulling my hand free, taking him in hers. Watch, she mouthed.
I watched her wrap her thumb and forefinger around him, up near the head, watched as she lifted up, pulling the skin taut then wrapping the rest of her fingers around it. “No extra skin in your hand,” she said, her breath in my ear.
I nodded. She slid her hand down the length of him, the skin getting tight as she neared the base. Still, though, she moved lower, pulling at him, making him moan. She moved back up then, moving up and down only an inch or so, her grip increasing, the head beginning to turn color as blood filled it.