“Oh yes,” I moaned, my own orgasm imminent. Fuck, I needed that cock inside me. I mean… a cock inside me.
“Want to be my Mommy-slut?” he asked.
“Yes, yes,” I moaned a little too loud as my orgasm was about to erupt.
Then in a crazy moment of serendipity, we both came at the same time, he oblivious to the special mother-son moment we were sharing, as I came just as he grunted, “Take my load, Mommy,” before massive bullets of cum shot up in the air.
I collapsed back onto the toilet and allowed the orgasm, my most intense on my own that I could remember, to course through me.
I just sat there for a couple of minutes, trying to regain some energy after my epic orgasm before opening my eyes and seeing that he was putting my stocking and its presumably clean mate in my laundry hamper. He’d obviously thought his subterfuge through, so this probably wasn’t the first time.
I shook my head, now mortified at what I’d just done.
I’d watched my son masturbate.
I’d gotten turned on watching him masturbate.
I’d masturbated watching him masturbate.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Yet as I stood up feeling excessive wetness I smirked, thinking… my barren desert finally got some rain.
I washed my face and hands, sure couldn’t be dealing with patients with pussy scent on my fingers, and I returned for the last four hours of my shift… which were crazy hectic but allowed me to push my sick sin out of my head.
My day done, I did what I did every day when my shift was done since Jason had returned home, I texted him: Be home soon.
He responded a moment later: Great. I’ll start supper.
I smiled at his thoughtfulness; this was the Jason I knew: caring and thoughtful… a Momma’s boy in the best sense… not a mother fucker.
Oh, fuck… what a nasty term.
As I typed him a response, his big cock popped into my head. I shook my head as if my memory were an Etch-a-Sketch I could erase (wouldn’t it be nice if we could get rid of unwanted memories that easily?) and I responded, trying to believe the words I was typing: Thanks, honey. You’re such a good son.
Now what should I do?
Confront him?
Then he’d know I was spying on him.
Scold him?
What would that do but humiliate him?
How would I even bring it up?
‘Hey, honey, I saw you jerking off on my bed with my stocking and calling me nasty slut names’.
The only thing more confounding than my son’s fantasy of using me as his slut was the way my pussy was once again undeniably wet as I replayed in my head what I’d witnessed earlier.
Why?
Sure, I hadn’t had sex in months, not even an orgasm… I’d literally stopped having any desire for sexual pleasure.
And truthfully, I hadn’t missed it.
I mean my husband had seldom gotten me off even before we were married. He didn’t go down on me ever, the way I came best and most intensely (I learned that in college from a very eager pussy pleasing boyfriend, as well as during a few lesbian encounters where I both gave and received oral pleasure), since hubby thought it was disgusting and unsanitary… of course he didn’t see it that way when he wanted me to give head.