At that moment, there was a woman on the other side of the door, ready to come in, ready to see my climax and the wonder of my ejaculation. It was my mother. But in that moment when I was so blinded to anything rational, it was a woman. I could have shouted to wait, to not come in, but instead I faced the door and kept driving my hand up and down, trying to hold it in for just one more second, until the door opened. At that moment the opening of the door could have been the parting of the lips into her vagina. It was as if I was entering her even as she was entering my room.
She opened the door, looked at me as I looked at her with my face having the grimace of climax. In the complete surprise of the moment she did not avert her eyes or turn away, at least not for the two or three seconds it took for my cum to squirt out in repeated spasms. And her eyes, quite naturally, focused on that.
I think back to that moment as my first sexual experience. The first time I had come deep inside of a woman, that I had cum all over her face. That I had stuck my cock in her ass. She looked with shock, but also had the look of amazement, or what I took as the amazement that I fantasized a woman would have in seeing me complete the act. She let out a gasp, a “whoa”, looked up to my face and at the cum that had dripped to the floor. She then turned and walked out, quietly closing the door as if she was afraid to wake me. I was guilty at what I had done, ashamed, but as the last of the semen oozed out and onto the floor, I also felt that I was watching the cum drip off of her, off of her face, being spit out of her mouth, oozing out of her cunt.
I stayed in the room for a bit, but realized I would inevitably be confronted by her on this, and felt it was better sooner than later. As soon as she heard the door open, she came up to me. “I know you do that. Every boy does. But I shouldn’t be seeing you. I respect your privacy, I knock before I come into your room. But you also need to be more thoughtful. It’s really not right.”
I replied in a way that recounted the image of that moment, that still dominated what might have been a natural embarrassment, “I’m sorry you saw that, but I really couldn’t stop. It was already shooting out.”
Then as now, my masturbatory fantasy moved toward reliving that moment. My mother replaced Caroline Parker as the object of my sexual display. My mother was watching in amazement and approval, in shock and awe at the cum spurting from me. The difference between Caroline and my mother was that my mother was in the house with me. She was accessible, and she already had seen it for real. It was not a fantasy.
And, it could happen again.
Having now felt of my mother in that sexual moment as simply a woman, and again and again masturbating with this recollection as my fantasy, I had pushed beyond the mother-son barrier. I could look at my mother and know that in the current moment of us having dinner or of me watching her clean the house she was my mother, but that in another moment of me closing my door, taking the vaseline and working my cock into its climatic spasms, she was the sexual receptacle for my passion of that moment.