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“Mom, can I crawl in beside you? Aunt Lynn’s camping bed collapsed.”
It was Michael, of course. I grunted assent and scooted over to the right-hand side of the queen-sized bed, parting with one of my pillows. He crawled in next to me and lay on his back, careful to keep to his side of the bed. My last thought before I dropped off again was, ‘Norma Jean, this is nice. It’s almost as if Tom was back again.’
Norma Jean isn’t my real name. It’s what Tom used to call me when he was in the mood for something a little naughty, before his illness even started. He loved those old Marilyn Monroe films and he always said that she was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen until I came along. It’s true that I have a body type that is like hers — a jiggly bottom and generous breasts. This is not the fashion now; you’re supposed to be so skinny that your abdomen is like a washboard and your upper arms are like matchsticks. Well, Tom was old-fashioned (and honest) and he liked my figure. He let me know it too, watching me dressing and undressing, caressing my breasts through my slip to raise my nipples and stroking my butt until I was moist and ready down there.
My real name is Molly and my son, all I have left now, is Michael. He is 22 and a junior at the U of B. He was a week into summer break when Tom took a turn for the worse.
We had buried Tom that day. It was almost a relief. His last few days had been filled with abominable suffering, despite the increasing doses of morphine. The marijuana no longer helped. Finally, the hospice nurse took pity on us and left a vial of painkiller and a syringe, cautioning me that it might be fatal to give Tom more than triple his usual dose.
Even though Tom was barely conscious, I think he heard her. He looked at me with supplicating eyes, and when he saw me draw the liquid into the hypodermic, he gave my hand a final squeeze as a thank you.. Then he murmured, “Later, my love…”
Even though Tom had had hospice care for the last seven weeks, the bulk of his care had fallen on me, and I was still numb with fatigue at the funeral. Michael had come home from college and gave the eulogy. Two of Tom’s singing pupils had performed “Amazing Grace” in their high, sweet soprano voices, and I had heard the dreaded words in their utter finality, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust” Throughout, I had remained tearless, as if I had run dry. Somehow, Michael and Lynn, my sister, got me back to her place, which she had generously offered as shelter for a few days, until I had the strength to go back to our own home. I barely had the energy to change into a nightgown before I collapsed on the guestroom bed. Michael went to sleep in the living room on an old, rickety camp bed — which, sure enough, had now collapsed under his 210 pounds of muscle and bone.
I emerged slowly from a strange erotic dream. It was still dark, but I kept my eyes closed anyway, savoring the memory of Tom’s cock penetrating my pulsating vagina, while I rubbed the pussy he had grown in the place of his appendicitis scar, After a few seconds, I noticed a rustling sound and a slow movement up and down of the mattress. I was already hot from my dream; this turned me on even more. It was a game Tom and I used to play, where one of us would wake up in the middle of the night and start slowly masturbating, trying to last until the other woke up and could join in. Then we would each lie there, rubbing ourselves, getting hotter and hotter, all the while pretending that each thought the other asleep. Sometimes we would both carry it to a climax, and then the object of the game would ataşehir escort be to come at the same time; sometimes, I would try to come first, so that Tom remained hard and we could fuck for real. Sometimes, we were so tired and satiated from the previous evening’s sex that we would just drift back to sleep. These were some of our most treasured intimate moments.
It took me a few seconds to realize that this wasn’t Tom in bed with me, that Tom was gone — dead and buried — and that it was Michael, my son, our son, who was pleasuring himself next to me, slowly, quietly, trying not to disturb my sleep. I lay perfectly still, willing myself to breathe evenly. If Michael realized I was awake, he would be die of embarrassment.
Or would he? Would it maybe turn him on? Was this just his hormones, or did it have something to do with his mother lying next to him? Was he fantasizing… about me? When I awakened, I had thought the idea of Michael next to me, jacking off — no other word, really — would turn me off instantly. It didn’t. If anything, my arousal increased. This was wrong. I shouldn’t be imagining that my son was thinking about his mother while masturbating. Mothers didn’t have thoughts like that.
I had awakened on my back, with one hand on my right breast and the other buried in my pubic hair, under my nightgown, under my panties. As I thought forbidden thoughts about Michael, I pinched my nipple. Hard. The sensation coursed through my body, straight to my pussy. My left hand crept downwards and I felt the sticky fluid gushing from me.
From that moment, I was lost. What was I doing? What was I thinking? This was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. If I just pretended it was still Tom, I thought, it would be OK — a case of mistaken identity. But the image of Michael’s young body forced its way to the forefront of my mind. I had just a few weeks earlier seen him in a Speedo at the pool, and he had the build of a Greek god. And I knew that he slept in the buff. So my left hand went on pinching and twisting my nipples and my right hand dipped into my wet vagina to lubricate my clit. I thought that if I paced myself just right, Michael would be so much into his own pleasure that he wouldn’t notice what I was doing — all I had to do was be quieter than he and stop before he came down from the climax he was building up to.
For a while, it worked. Michael’s breathing became a little more ragged and the rustling of the blanket a little more pronounced as I sensed that his strokes became longer and more intense. Then, as my finger plunged into my wet cunt, it made a little squelch, almost like a puppy lapping milk from a bowl. I froze. I briefly thought that Michael’s now regular rhythm had broken for an instant and that he had heard me. Strangely, the fright it gave me aroused me even more. By now, my panties were soaking wet. I started rubbing my clit again, my engorged little button, not so little now, and I knew my whole pussy was glistening with my juices even though I couldn’t see it.
As I was torn between guilt, fear and illicit pleasure, I noticed that Michael was moving faster, almost as if he didn’t care whether he was discovered. My own breathing became irregular and I couldn’t help raising and lowering my hips. I was probably making almost as much noise as he, but he gave no sign that he felt my rhythmic movements or heard the increasing squishiness of my cunt or smelled the faint odor of female arousal that wafted up from under the sheets. I sensed that he was close and then I heard him start to groan, very quietly but unmistakably, and I knew that avcılar escort I had only a couple of seconds to stop. But I couldn’t. My body had a will of its own and my fingers continued pinching and rubbing. I felt Michael stiffen and then relax while my hips were starting to spasm, shooting up off the bed and slowly sinking back for several seconds after he had come, setting off my own release, as I in turn stiffened in a mind-shattering orgasm and sank back onto the mattress, spent, exhausted.
I don’t even know whether I made a noise as I came. I assume I did — I usually moan pretty loud.
I was almost asleep again when I heard Michaels voice, tentative and barely above a whisper. I turned towards him.
“Mom,” he said again. I heard his voice catch. I reached for the bedside lamp and turned it on. His eyes were full of tears. “Dad is…” he managed to say before he broke down and wept.
His sobs set off mine. Yes, Tom was no more; I would, we would, never see him again. A deep dark void opened in me and I thought I would feel the emptiness for the rest of my life. My God, how was I going to live without him? How was I going to want to live? I snuggled my head into Michael’s shoulder and cried a river on his chest, while he, calming down before I did, stretched his right arm around to pat the back of my head. He put his left arm on my back and squeezed hard. My body continued to be wracked by deep, heart-rending sobs, while my own right arm grabbed around his chest.
I don’t know how long this lasted. Finally, I realized that my sobbing had become intermittent and that Michael was continuing to pat my head, but that his other arm was stroking my back in long, slow movements. The darkness I had felt within was lifting. I still thought of Tom, of all the things that I would remember of him, of us, of how he used to stroke my back just like that after making love at night, as we were both falling asleep. In a reversal of the gender stereotype, I always fell asleep be fore he did, and I was feeling sleepy now.
Then something subtly changed. It was no longer Tom stroking me after love, it was Tom caressing me before sex. Suddenly, just like that, Michael’s stroking became Tom’s foreplay. I felt more than his hands; there was subtle pressure on my hip as I was lying with my body half over his. It was his growing erection. As I realized what it was that was touching me, I felt my own center becoming liquid, a roiling in my nether parts. I gave out a half grunt, half moan and pressed my body down on Tom’s — no, Michael’s. The pressure on my hip became more insistent and Michael’s — Tom’s — hand extended its stroke down to the curve of my bottom. I wriggled myself into a position where Michael’s hipbone could push against my mound. I felt a shudder run through my body.
Then Michael’s hand worked itself down from my bottom and around to my right hip. He lifted it gently up and inched his body further under mine. Now I could feel his manhood nestle against my silk panties in the groove between my thigh and my stomach. He moved his hand back on my waist, this time under the satin of my nightgown. I responded by minute but insistent movements of my vulva on his hip. The pressure on my love-button made my juices flow even more freely, but I continued, still in a haze as to whether this was Michael or Tom. Tom, no, Michael, couldn’t feel my arousal, I imagined, because the wetness was entirely contained by my panties.
Michael, too, made insistent little up-and-down movements, subtly moving his penis against the top of my thigh. Then avrupa yakası escort he did two things simultaneously. He took his right had off my head and worked it around to the front of my nightgown where he cupped my breast and took my nipple between two fingers. He also worked his left hand under the waistband of my panties, on to my bare behind, and extended a finger down the crack of my ass. This time, the electricity that coursed from my nipple and my ass to my clit elicited a full-throated, loud moan. There was no doubt what my body wanted.
Michael lifted up my torso so I found myself on all fours. He used both hands to pull my nightgown over my head. I responded by pulling my panties down and off one leg, then the other. Now I was naked, and so was he. When I lay down again, still half across his body, he must have felt my wetness. I certainly felt the sticky residue from his earlier climax, and I thought I could also sense the lubrication of his glans as it rubbed against my stomach.
Now he used both his hands to pull me over so I was centered on his body, with my pussy lips encasing his cock. His hands came back up to my nipples, which he rubbed and squeezed for a few minutes while I slid my soaking pussy lips and my engorged clit up and down the underside of his penis. My cunt was gushing. Then his hands moved down my back to my buttocks, and while my own fingernails dug into his nipples — I could feel the effect on his cock, which lurched at each pinch — he started to lift me into position. In a single fluid movement, Michael penetrated me, penetrated his mom, to the hilt, as deeply as I have ever had a cock. I was now completely conscious of what I was doing. This was Michael, my son, and I was fucking him on the night after my husband, his father, had been buried.
And yet, I felt the presence of Tom. In some strange way, Michael was my connection with the husband I had loved for twenty-five years, the only one I had ever loved, the one I would continue to love forever. He had left me memories, he had left me mementoes, and he had left me his son, our son, the most tangible, the most real remnant of himself. And now, Tom and I were making love, although by proxy, for the last time.
Our union ended as such things do. I climaxed first, trying to moderate the sounds of my orgasm, so that my sister Lynn wouldn’t suspect anything. Michael sensed the need for discretion, too, and emitted barely a grunt as he came deep inside me seconds later, depositing a large amount of come at my cervix. His orgasm set me off again in my third orgasm of the evening, just a nice quiet little one to top things off.
True to form, as Michael pulled out, I rolled over to my side of the bed and went instantly to sleep. Michael probably lay there longer, savoring the moment, before he dropped off too.
Mercifully, we both woke up early, did the bathroom thing, and got dressed. I stripped the bed and put the bedclothes in the washer before Lynn emerged. I’m not sure how much she had heard and whether she suspected anything, but I did catch her looking at me strangely over breakfast as she asked me how I was bearing up. Then Michael and I went home; we had just spent the night at Lynn’s because she lived in the town where the family burial plot lay.
In the three months since Tom’s funeral, Michael and I have not discussed what happened that night. We, or at least I, have not sensed any awkwardness, but sometimes our eyes meet and we look at each other with half-smiles on our faces. This has helped me keep the memory alive.
Now I find that my recollection is starting to fade a little. I’m not sure I want it to, just as I don’t want any of my memories of Tom to fade. My conscious mind knows that Michael and I should not repeat our experience, and yet, I am tempted to revive the connection I felt with Tom as I was fucking Michael.
Will I give in?
Will I resist?
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