For most of the next day I packed. Mom’s possessions were divided up into two collections; one for the items I wanted to keep and would have sent to storage, another for donation to charity. Every item brought memories, some sweet, some sad. Every item took me back to a simpler time; a time without the stress of providing, of freedom and play and new experiences, of friends and girlfriends and first kisses, first touches, movies, popcorn.
As evening arrived, I stopped and sat on the couch, turned the television on, and called my wife. We chatted. She brought me up to speed on the kids and her schedule, and showing how well she knew me, told me to take more time packing. There were no pressing issues at home needing me – except for her. She missed me, especially at night.
With the call over and the television picture appearing, only slightly distorted, I thought again how lucky I was. Jessica was a wonderful wife, mother, and partner. I adored her. After almost two decades together we still loved each other, still loved intimacy, and Jessica was a marvelous lover. She was soft and sensual, randy at times, and much more inventive than I. I’d never been tempted by any other woman. I didn’t have the strength, to start. And I couldn’t imagine any woman providing something I was lacking in our relationship, because there was nothing missing – intimacy or otherwise.
Standing, I wandered back to Mom’s room. I hadn’t touched it yet. It would be the last room to be packed. I was drawn back to her panty drawer and opened it.
Her pantyhose and stockings were neatly stacked on the side. Next to them were her garter belts; simple white ones, black ones, and underneath her body-shaping corsets, I saw her black lace garter. I pulled it out. It brought a sharp memory and with it, a return of warm arousal.
It was one of the rare nights Mom had gone out. The Meechers were having a cocktail party. Today, cocktail parties are almost nonexistent. Back then, women dressed up, men wore suits, and fancy cocktails were served while couples socialized just for the fun of it, trading stories, talking politics, complaining about golf handicaps, and planning charity events. Drinks were more than wine or beer. Martinis and gimlets and Rob Roys were served. Drinks had cherries or olives or pickled onions in them. Music played on turntables hidden inside polished wooden cabinets – furniture built for entertainment with transistor tube radios and clever slots for vinyl albums, Perry Como playing, or The Platters singing about smoke in your eyes.
Mom had dressed up. Her green and black strapless dress was tight at the waist, flaring at her hips, and falling to below her knees. Her bust was hinted at, with just the top swells teasingly exposed. Her makeup was carefully applied, lipstick just so, her hair carefully coiffed into waves and pinned up at the sides. She was beautiful, even to me.
She was tired and happy and slightly tipsy when she came in, easy with a laugh. We watched television while I munched pretzels from a wooden bowl on the coffee table.
Mom sat next to me, her knee crossed and foot bobbing in the air. She sighed as she eased her high heels off. Through the nylons I saw her red-painted toenails that matched her fingernail polish.
Paying attention to the television, I reached for more pretzels and knocked the bowl off the coffee table. Pretzels littered the floor in front of the couch. I apologized and, pushing the coffee table aside, dropped to my knees to pick the pretzels up.
Mom uncrossed her leg and raised her feet, bending one back onto the couch. At that moment, I glanced up and saw Mom’s black stocking, her knee, and higher up under her dress. The stockings ended high on her thighs and as I moved to gather pretzels, she lifted her other leg out of the way and I had an unobstructed view of her black panties and the black garter holding her stockings up. Mom’s pussy pressed against the lacy black panties and through them I could see her brown pubic bush, so sexy and erotic.
Before I could blink, her hand pressed her dress down and the view was gone, but it stayed sharp in my mind, and that night I masturbated, spurting cum onto my stomach as I imagined touching her panties and feeling the sponginess of her pubes inside. What would it feel like?
She knew what I’d seen. She told me much later. She knew what I was doing in my bedroom, too, although that was just a safe bet on her part. But it was her awareness of that event that changed, even intensified, my panty fetish.
Enjoying the memory, I replaced the black garter belt and brushed my hands through her panties again, looking for one pair in particular. There they were; soft pink, cotton, narrow elastic waist with a small white satin bow on the elastic, the material thin. I picked them up and as I did, an erection formed at the memory.
Fifteen years old.
On my bed, mid afternoon on a Saturday, with Mom out shopping for groceries, I’d borrowed a pair of her panties – rather risqué bikini style in the softest brushed cotton, blue with large white daisies printed on them – and was comfortably aroused, jeans and underwear pushed down to my thighs, with Mom’s panties wrapped around my shaft, stroking myself with the soft material.
In my mind’s eye, I pictured Mom wearing them. I imagined her pubes escaping from the top elastic and how they’d hug her pussy, my cock straining. So lost in the daydream, I hadn’t heard Mom return.
My bedroom door opened and Mom walked in, saying, “Ken, I could . . .” She stopped talking.
Mortified, I rolled over to hide my erection and her panties.
“When you’ve finished, come help me unpack,” she said quietly, and backed out, the door closing behind her.
Shame flooded me. My erection wilted. I hurriedly dressed and shoved Mom’s panties under my pillow. How, I wondered, would I ever be able to face her? Face hot with embarrassment, I took a deep breath and headed to the kitchen.
Mom, bless her heart, made no mention of the event. She chatted away about meals and food prices and asked me to unpack a full paper grocery bag. Through kindness and consideration, Mom managed to ease my guilt and embarrassment, and life resumed. But, like a guillotine, her awareness hovered over my head.
It was later that evening when the subject came up, just not how I’d envisioned it.
Watching the television together, with Mom also reading Sunset magazine, she lowered the magazine into her lap and said, “I’m sorry, Ken. I should have knocked first. I did call out several times, but you didn’t answer.”
Shifting uncomfortably, I said, “It’s okay, Mom,” and hoped the subject would be dropped. It wasn’t.
“It’s perfectly normal,” she commented.
I thought she was talking about masturbation until she added, “Just put them back in the laundry basket when you’re finished with them.”
My face flushed hot again. I was thankful when the subject wasn’t pursued further. But that event changed us. For the next week I avoided my mother’s panties and tried to forget about them. I couldn’t, the erotic draw just too strong and, less than two weeks later, I borrowed a used pair from the laundry basket and experienced a wonderful orgasm unlike I’d had for a while.
One late-afternoon after school, I entered the house and yelled for Mom. I wanted to head out with Jimmy for a while.
From down the hall Mom called, “In here.”
I approached her bedroom and, with her door ajar, I heard her moving around. I knocked. “Mom?”
When I pushed the door open, she said, “Sit on the bed.” She passed me with her head tilted putting in an earring.
Mom was wearing a simple white bra and panties. Simple or not, they looked great on her, emphasizing her bust and the sexy pear shape of her ass. I sat on the bed trying not to stare.
“What did you want?” she said, picking up a hairbrush.
“Are you going out tonight?”
She brushed her hair, patting it, curling the ends, and sprayed it. “The Thompsons are having a get together and invited me. I won’t be out late.”
Facing the mirror, Mom bent, and studied her hair. From behind, her buttocks shaped her panties, stretching them enough for a dip along her butt crack to form. She sat on the bench chair at her makeup desk and started applying eyeliner.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked.
“Just that I was heading out to meet Jimmy for a while.”
“Okay. Dinner will be in the oven.” She continued to apply makeup, then stood and walked over to the dresser. In that drawer, she took out black pantyhose and sat next to me on the bed. Casually, as if there was nothing strange about the situation, she put them on, one leg at a time, then stood and pulled the pantyhose up to her waist. The pantyhose pressed her panties to her body, outlining every sensual female curve and dip.
An erection formed. Before she noticed, I stood. “I’m off. Have fun,” I said and left the house.
Time with Jimmy distracted me, but when I returned home and ate dinner, my mind went back to Mom. She’d seemed so comfortable getting dressed in front of me. Nothing in her tone of voice or how she looked at me said it was anything more than what had happened. Oddly, I liked watching her. Seeing a woman dress was new. The way Mom put on pantyhose was erotic to me, and I wanted to see her do it again.
I did. Over the next couple of months I found myself waiting for her to go change and would find a reason to talk to her. It became normal for me to sit on her bed and watch her. I got to see so many of her panties and bras, some chaste, some very alluring, and every once in a blue moon, I’d see the shadow of her full pubic bush inside her panties. Once, I saw her dark areolae through a lacy bra. Those were all arousing sights that caused erections, and I became comfortable with it, not running away to hide. Mom’s panties became intertwined with my erotic pleasure.
But, one Saturday evening, everything changed. Everything.
Mom returned from a cocktail party. It was immediately apparent she was tipsy, laughing and smiling and chatting as she took off her coat and carefully hung it up. She talked about the party, telling me funny stories. I liked her in this mood. She was fun and happy.
She sat down on the couch rather hard and kicked off her high heels. She massaged her feet, regaling me with the inebriated antics of one uncoordinated guest trying to dance.
Leaning over, she picked up her high heels and said, “I’m going to change into something more comfortable,” and continued with her commentary on the party, now giving me observations of Mrs. Berg flirting despite her husband being there, “and he’s nothing to look at, either. I don’t blame her. I can’t imagine what it would be like to wake up to Fred Berg every morning!”
I followed her into her bedroom and sat on the bed. Mom chatted, comfortable with my presence, and started to undress. Watching a woman undress is even more erotic than watching them get dressed. Mom first removed her earrings, tilting her head this way and that, placing them in a small porcelain decorative dish. She reached behind her to unhook and unzip her skirt and, holding the waist, let it drop, then stepping out of it. That was when I saw her panties – soft pink, cotton, narrow elastic waist with a small white satin bow on the elastic, the material thin.
She peeled her flesh-colored pantyhose down, bending to remove her feet and her rear rounded out, the remarkable mound of her pussy emerging at the top of her thighs, and I got an erection.
Straightening, she tossed her pantyhose onto the dresser. My eyes were locked on the puffy front of her panties where her pubic bush was, the exciting delta that shaped soft pink cotton and my erection strained, confined uncomfortably in jeans.
“Ken? Ken!” Mom said. She smiled at me, unbuttoning her blouse. “Why don’t you change for bed and we’ll have popcorn and watch TV together?”
“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” I mumbled. In my bedroom, I changed into pajamas, keeping my underwear on, waited for my erection to wane, and headed to the living room.
The sound of popcorn popping made me change direction. In the kitchen, Mom was at the stove shaking a Jiffy Pop on the stove, the aluminum cover expanding as popcorn formed, the scrumptious scent of it filling the kitchen. She was wearing her white terry bathrobe.
With hot popcorn and a soda for me, a glass of white wine for Mom, we settled on the couch and watched Bewitched. It was while watching The Dick Van Dyke Show that Mom crossed one knee over the other and the bathrobe slipped open exposing her bare leg. I naturally followed it up and almost choked at the way her soft pink cotton panties peeked out of the gap in her bathrobe, her thighs hiding her crotch.
This was even more erotic. This was an illicit peek, more exciting. And I tried to be subtle as I stared. Unfortunately, an erection formed and underwear and pajamas weren’t enough to hide it. I held the bottle of Coke in my lap, wishing I’d had the foresight to grab a pair of Mom’s panties while she was out.
Mom uncrossed and re-crossed her knees the other way and, for a brief moment, I saw her crotch and how her pussy seemed to bulge against soft pink cotton. The shape was indescribably erotic. My cock strained. For the rest of The Dick Van Dyke show I kept the Coke bottle pressed to my lap.
When the show ended, I stood. “I think I’ll go to bed, Mom,” I told her, planning on hurrying away. But Mom stood, too.
She noticed. It was hard to miss. For just a moment there was silence. Then my mother smiled softly. “It’s okay, Ken. It’s perfectly natural and nothing to be embarrassed about.”
I opened my mouth to disagree and she continued.
“Seeing a woman in panties and getting aroused is normal. It’s why women wear lingerie and not tidy-whities.” She glanced at the tent in my pajamas, then at me. “It’s rather flattering.”
Mom moved closer and shocked me.
“You like my panties.” Her hand brushed against my cock. “I’ll tell you a secret. Women get turned on by arousing men.”
I held my breath. Then Mom gently brushed my erection again before closing her fingers around it, gently squeezing it.
“You’re big,” she said softly. “Your father was, too.” She untied the belt of her robe and it fell open, exposing her soft pink bra and cotton panties, her bare stomach. My cock pulsed in her hand.
“Come,” she ordered quietly.
I followed her, expecting to go to her bedroom. But no. She led me into my bedroom and turned to face me, taking my erection in her hand again, squeezing it gently. My cock strained. A pulse of pleasure hit me, and horniness took over, suppressing embarrassment.
“Can I see?” she asked.
I couldn’t find my voice, so I nodded, my pulse racing.
Mom’s fingers eased into the waist of my pajamas. She pulled my pajamas and underwear out and down, releasing my erection. It sprang up, strong, pointing up. I watched Mom’s hand as she gently took me in her hand, her fingers wrapping around my shaft.
“You have a beautiful erection, Ken,” she said softly.
Then she stroked me! I groaned quietly, cock swelling. No one had touched me, let alone my mother. Hers was the first, and, God, did it feel good! Solidly under the control of horniness, I watched Mom stroke me, her touch light, almost delicate, and pleasure surged through me, my erection jerking. A bead of precum emerged and Mom rubbed it with the pad of her thumb. She edged closer to me.
“Are you close?” she asked.
I could only nod, my heart racing, heat blossoming, cock straining. Nothing in my life had been so exciting.
Then Mom took me over the top. In almost a whisper, she said, “You like panties.” The fingers of her free hand pinched the elastic waist of her soft pink panties. “You like to cum in my panties,” she whispered, pulling the waist away from her stomach. “Would you like to cum in my panties while I’m wearing them?”
She pulled the waist out and down, and I saw her thick, soft pubic bush in all its glory for the first time. I saw how her gusset cradled her vulva inside, the delta shape of her so sexy. So excited at the erotic sight, at actually seeing my mother’s pussy, the first one I’d ever seen, I couldn’t stop my reaction. I came, cock swelling. Semen surged up my shaft as Mom stroked me. The crown swelled, and cum exploded, a long spurt shooting and landing on Mom’s pubes, thick and white. Ecstasy made me gasp and I spurted again, another rope of cum spurting onto her bush. Semen dripped down her bush slowly and I spurted again, gasping, gut clenching. Mom stroked my pulsing cock, almost milking me, each strong spurt shooting more semen onto her pubes. My knees weakened, legs trembled. I was panting, my erection spurting, pleasure wracking my body as Mom stroked me. My orgasm peaked and passed, pulses weakening, cum oozing out in weak spurts.
Mom let the waist of her panties go and semen made a dark stain on the front all the way down to her gusset. She released my softening penis, leaned in and kissed my cheek, whispering, “Sleep well,” before wrapping her robe around her and leaving.
I stood in the middle of the bedroom stunned. Too many firsts swamped my mind and the top of them was seeing my mother’s light brown pussy dripping white cum. It took a long time to fall asleep that night.
The memory of that event, thirty years ago, still brought on an erection. I looked at those soft pink cotton panties in my hand, an erection tight in my pants. It still had a powerful effect on me.
I think Mom had been tipsy that night. But it was more than that. I suspected she’d been flirted with by some man at the cocktail party and was feeling aroused and missed Dad; a man in her life. Back then I wondered if Mom went to bed that night and masturbated with my semen on her pussy. I used to picture her on her bed, her hand inside her wet panties, playing with herself, spreading my warm cum and bringing herself off, climaxing from her son’s semen. Back then, I’d hoped that’s what she’d done. Mom deserved to find pleasure. She was beautiful, still young, and should have found someone to share her life with.
She never did.
Back then, at fifteen years old, after that event, I wanted to repeat it as frequently as possible. Had I, socializing with girls might have stopped. Maybe Mom knew it. Maybe she recognized the implications of a deepening, intimate sexual relationship with her son.
Life returned to normal. Mom didn’t mention the event. She seemed herself the next day. But every so often, I’d find a pair of her panties left on my bed; a gift, her act showing her acceptance of my fetish.
Fondling those soft pink panties, I sat on her bed, then laid back. Her scent was strong on the bed. She’d never worn anything but Chanel No. 5.
I let those memories wash through me, my mother so beautiful and sensual in her own way. Undoing my pants, I fished my erection out and wrapped her panties around my shaft, soft cotton feeling so good. I let myself remember the last time she’d touched me. I was sixteen when she entered my bedroom, a basket laundered clothes in her arms. It was only the second time in my life she’d caught me masturbating.
She’d immediately apologized and made to back out. I told her it was alright. She knew I masturbated. I wasn’t as embarrassed as I used to be. However, as I made to cover up, Mom dropped the basket of folded clothes at the foot of the bed and sat at my side, stopping me. she fished through the basket and brought out those same soft pink cotton panties, smiled, and wrapped them around my erection, her hand closing on my shaft.
“Let me,” she said softly, stroking me.
Now lying on her bed with my pants pushed down, I stroked my erection with those panties, remembering Mom’s gentle touch, how she stroked me slowly, her panties so soft. I remembered seeing her nipples become more prominent, despite her bra and blouse.
I stroked my cock slowly, inhaling her scent from the bed and remembered how exciting it was to know Mom was aroused by touching me, and how I wished I could touch her, if only once, and bring her pleasure like she did for me.
Stroking my erection, I pictured Mom’s smile when I came that day, spurting semen onto my stomach.
The thrill today was as strong as it was long ago and I came, spurting into Mom’s panties, pleasure pulsing, cock straining. I came fully, remembering her touch, her caress.
Sighing, relaxed, I undressed and did something I’d often dreamed about back then. I slept in Mom’s bed.
When morning light woke me, I lay quietly and studied her bedroom. Very little had changed. The curtains were different and family photos had been added, all in silver frames.
I’d had one very sexy episode here. Just one. The thought of it brought on arousal, excitement, my pulse rising.
Seventeen years old.
Mom arrived home late on Friday. I’d had Jimmy and a couple of friends over to listen to music and we’d sneaked a few beers. I was pleasantly tipsy. So was Mom. I knew from the moment she fumbled putting her key in the front door. She’d been at another cocktail party.
They were fairly regular, hosted at different friend’s homes, everyone well presented. I thought of them as the ’Aspic Events’. Meals were fancy, which meant everything was put in aspic and served cold. The worst was tomato juice aspic with green peas and hard boiled eggs. I’d seen Mom make it for the parties she’d hosted, tried it and just about vomited. Mom had insisted everyone made aspic for these events. It was fancy food.
Mom was happy, slightly tipsy, and light on her feet. She draped her coat over the back of an armchair and told me she’d danced. Twirling, she laughed, her skirt swinging out.
“What did you do?” she asked.
I told her about my friends and listening to music, and skipped the part about the beer.
Mom smiled. “Put music on. Dance with me,” she insisted.
Knowing her taste, I put on The Drifters, and, as Save The Last Dance For Me filled the living room, Mom grabbed my hand and pulled me to her. It hit me how I’d grown. Mom was always taller than me, even when she wasn’t. But when her cheek settled on my shoulder and we danced to the slow song, I realized, without her high heels, I now was much taller.
We moved slowly, music washing over us, and I enjoyed dancing with her. She still had a slender waist. She smelled of Chanel No 5 and a hint of cigarette smoke. She moved gracefully; a wonderful dancer. And when the song ended, she asked me to play it again.
I did. We danced. Mom’s hand rubbed my back and my hand slipped down to her lower back, just where her rear started. When the song ended, Mom tightened her arm around me and sighed. She smiled at me, her blue eyes twinkling.
“You’re a good dancer, Kenny. You’re going to make some girl very happy.” Then she added, “I have to take my makeup off. Keep me company.”
I followed her to her bedroom. Her nylons whispered as she walked, her rear moving, skirt swinging. Mom sat on her bench at her makeup table. I parked myself on her bed.
Mom chatted away giving me more stories from the cocktail party while she wiped makeup off with cotton pads. She leaned into the mirror and studied her face, then applied cream, still chatting.
Eventually, she stood and casually unhooked her skirt, unzipped it, and slipped it down, stepping out of it, and I reacted, blood flowing. Mom was wearing a black, lacy garter belt and stockings. In her high heels, her legs were long and shapely. She wore matching black panties, low cut, lace on the sides, the rest some silken, shimmery material.
Still chatting away, she unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged it off, and my erection strengthened. Mom wore a matching lacy bra that exposed the top of her breasts. And through the lace, I could see her areolae and nipples clearly; dark pink, her nipples prominent.
I was staring, maybe ogling. In high heels, stockings, garter, and rather skimpy panties and bra, Mom was a sexy, sensual, beautiful woman in the prime of her life. To me, she could have stepped out of a Playboy magazine. She was slender, yet the curves! Long legs, toned thighs, the sensual swell of her ass, a tapering waist, and breasts that suited her body perfectly, not too large, not too small.
She must have noticed me. She stopped talking and studied me with a small smile, her eyes soft.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Girls like to be appreciated.”
“Mom, you’re . . .” I couldn’t finish. How do you tell your mother she’s the sexiest woman you’d seen?
Still smiling gently, Mom reached for my hand and pulled me up. “Just this once,” she murmured.
Mom moved my hand up to her breast. “Just this once you can touch me. I know how you’ve wanted to.”
She pressed my palm to her breast. My erection strained inside my jeans. Mom’s breast, more than a handful, was warm and surprisingly heavy. I caressed her over her bra, marveling at how resilient yet soft it was and, somewhat distracted, I rubbed the bump of her nipple.
Mom, still holding my wrist, let me fondle her. It was my first touch of a breast and so exciting. My cock pulsed slowly. I was so aroused, so turned on. Then she guided my hand down across the gentle feminine swell of her stomach, her skin warm and silken. My heart raced. I watched my hand as if it was a separate part of me.
“You can touch my panties,” she whispered, and I did.
The groan was loud in my head when I actually cupped Mom’s pussy. Against my hand I felt the springiness of her pubic bush. I felt the shape of her pussy, broad at the top, swelling out, and tapering sensually, her vulva full, rounded. And I felt the warmth of her through her panties, exciting me. My first touch of a pussy.
With great care, I hesitantly tried to feel her shape, unsure of how, inexperienced.
Mom said in the softest voice, “I won’t break,” and pressed my hand to her crotch.
I explored, discovering the fullness of her labia, how prominent she was between her thighs. I explored the steep sides down to the elastic legs of her panties and marveled at fullness of her mons, lush and so arousing. Under my hand, Mom’s mons was soft, sensual, yielding to slight pressure. The feel of her pubes excited me beyond belief, and my erection strained, pulsed, dampness emerging at the tip.
Mom released my wrist. It was a shock when she caressed the bulge of my erection.
Her voice changed. It became almost husky. “You feel so hard. Let me help.”
Mom opened the button on my jeans, lowered the zipper, and slowly pushed my jeans and underwear down. My erection popped up when released, straining, thick, aching. She wrapped her hand around the shaft, squeezed gently, and stroked me once. The pad of her thumb spread precum, teasing me, exciting me.
She stroked me slowly and whispered, “Would you like to cum in my panties?”
I groaned, cock throbbing, so hard.
With her free hand, she took my wrist and pulled it away from her pussy, bringing it up to her breast, pressing my palm against the sexy mound. I fondled her gently, squeezing, rubbing, lost in arousal.
Releasing my wrist, still slowly stroking my erection, the head swollen and inflamed, she pulled the waist of her panties out and down, exposing her incredible pubic bush, light brown, silken, full.
Holding her panties down, she edged closer, stroking my erection, and the tip brushed against her, her pubes tickling my tip. She rubbed the tip up and down, precum leaking.
“Mom,” I whispered, pulse racing, cock throbbing.
She stroked me. “Cum in my panties, honey. Let me feel your cum.”
It was too much for me. I was too turned on. Groaning loudly, my cock swelled, ached, and a pulse of pleasure hit me, semen surging up my shaft to explode, a huge spurt splashing against her pubes, thick, white.
“Yes, cum,” she whispered, stroking me.
I gasped and another even harder wave of bliss slammed into me, semen exploding to hit her above her pubes, slipping down to collect in her bush. My orgasm erupted, strong, demanding, taking control, and, as Mom stroked my shaft, she aimed me down and another powerful explosion hit, a long pulse of semen hitting the gusset of her panties, pooling thickly. I tipped over into the storm of my climax. Mom stroked my pulsing cock, each stroke milking a hard spurt, cum shooting onto her pubes. I came hard, endlessly, her brown bush speckled with white semen. Pleasure wracked my body, my gut clenching, and an ache developed with each desperate spurt until my orgasm peaked and passed, spurts weakening, slowing, the last of them dribbling down my shaft onto Mom’s hand.
My knees were weak, my breath panting. I wobbled a bit.
Mom brought her panties back up, her pubes hidden. She gently pressed the front of her panties against her pussy and said, “I think it’s time for bed,” stepping back.
She smiled, full of love, kissed my cheek and whispered, “Sweet dreams, Kenny.”
That memory was so strong even today. Lying in her bed, I came, stroking myself, semen shooting onto my stomach, pleasure suffusing me, and as my orgasm passed, as pulses weakened and stopped, sadness washed over me.
I wish I’d talked to her and told her how much I loved her, how her easy acceptance of my puberty made me a better person. I wished I could tell her how her attitude had made me a more sensitive lover.
Mom had never touched me again. Just those two times. But she’d occasionally left me a gift – a pair of her panties on my bed. We didn’t talk about it. In every way my relationship with her was the same, her gifts a subtle message that I wasn’t odd, deviant, just a normal adolescent boy.
I’d told her I loved her many, many times. But those events were never talked about. They weren’t hidden in shame, either, just part of my journey through puberty.
I thought Mom had an occasional male friend, once I left for university, but it was never confirmed. She never answered me when I asked. I hope she did. I hope she had someone to love her as she deserved to be loved.