Tits Are Made For Sucking Ch. 01

Smirking at her catastrophe of a son, Mom turned and left the bedroom. The moment she disappeared, I slowly began to untangle myself from the mess of bedclothes realizing, to my horror, that I was exposed from the navel down. Mom must have seen it all -- my nakedness, the erection, the come-stained pillow!

A flush of anxiety overcame me. Why didn't Mom say something, or was she too pre-occupied with getting to work to notice? I decided what was done was done, and perhaps my mother didn't mind. I wasn't going to mind-fuck myself.

In spite of that, my cock still tingled from the vivid image of Mrs. Nelson. I eagerly anticipated class that day.

After putting clean sheets and pillowcases on my bed and rinsing the evidence from the old bedclothes, I trotted into the kitchen, downed a glass of cold orange juice Mom had left for me on the kitchen table, grabbed my lunchbox and was on my way.

I'm sure I wasn't the only adolescent lusting after Mrs. Nelson. Other boys in class stared at areas other than her face and the blackboard. Her magnificent body needed no alluring clothes to accentuate its beauty. Her face was simple and pretty, nothing like I would ever see in one of the many blatantly erotic fashion magazines Mom kept in her bedroom. Even though, I spent many lone afternoons, before Mom got home from work, jacking off to her latest issue of Vogue or Cosmo.

Pulling down my shorts to expose my erection, I would lie in Mom's big, soft bed, sniffing the perfume on one of the pillows, milking my cock two or three times before I cleaned up and limped into the living room to watch TV.

Every weekday, Mom would walk in the back door at 5:45 P.M., almost to the second. Her routine had become entrenched over the years, almost longer than I could remember.

"Hi, baby," she smiled, her full, expressive lips stretching over a set of brilliant, white teeth. Mom had a slight overbite. Nothing major, but it made her mouth unusually fascinating, and her face all the more beautiful.

"Hi, Mom," I jumped up from the sofa to see what she had in her bags, and to give her a hug. Pressing my face against the fabric of her blouse, I again inhaled the scent of well-worn perfume. The same kind she had always used, one drop placed deep in the valley between her breasts. I had had the fortune to witness this ritual on several occasions.

Mom, as always, would sit on a chair in the kitchen, prying the low-heeled pumps from her aching feet. Sighing, she massaged her toes and feet for a few moments, then she walked slowly toward her bedroom. Once inside her bedroom, Mom would always pull the door to, but not completely shut. The alignment of the door on its hinges made it slowly, almost imperceptibly, creep back open an inch or so.

Until recently, I hadn't given it the least bit of thought but, as I said, things had changed.

Shoes off, I crept to the bedroom door, approaching from an angle that would make it easy to disguise my true intentions if Mom suddenly came back out. But I knew her routine well, most likely better than she. After taking off her clothes, she would go directly into her bathroom for a quick shower. This would usually take five to ten minutes.

I leaned into the beam of light emanating from the crack in the bedroom door. Instantly, I saw Mom, in her bra and panties, flash into and out of my field of view. Immediately, I heard the shower turn on. Happy with what I had seen so far, I reached out and gently pressed my fingers against the door.

Creeaak!

I shot back into the darkness, my heart pounding madly. Retreating into my bedroom, I locked the door. Digging one of Mom's used pillowcases from my dresser drawer, I sniffed it deeply, replaying the sweet, brief image of Mom in nothing but her fancy undies. Reclining on the bed, my other hand quickly freed my erection and stroked it, slowly and deliberately, as her body danced in my adolescent mind.

I came two more times before her shower was done. At that age, I seemed to have an endless reservoir of come.

Mom usually wore a demure nightgown in the evening. That day was no different. I eyed her sweet calves and bare feet on the thick, green carpet as she walked past me, turning my gaze toward the television the moment she spoke.

"What do you want for dinner, babe?" she inquired. "I have some steaks, or some chicken."

"Both sound good," I smiled at her, lamely, guilty of invading her privacy. "Whatever you want."

She disappeared into the kitchen, and soon, wonderful cooking smells crept into the living room. After about forty-five minutes, she called from the kitchen.

Laying out the plates and dinnerware on the kitchen table, I kept the moving image of my mother's body in my peripheral vision. Obviously tired from her long day, Mom's body moved slowly and deliberately.

"Watch out," her voice cautioned. Holding an oblong Pyrex dish with oven mitts, Mom slid past me, placing the dish on the kitchen table.

"Mmmm," I smiled at her, "that smells great."

"Hold up your plate," Mom said, picking up a chicken breast with a serving spoon and placing it in my plate. She then dished some of the roasted veggies beside the chicken.

"Thanks," I murmured. Mom shot a quick smile at me. Her expressive eyes made my insides flush with warmth.

For most of our meal, we ate silently. I chewed my food, glancing surreptitiously toward the top of my mother's open robe. Her skin had a generous smattering of freckles, especially in the summertime, when the sun had a chance to bring them out and lightly bronze her beautiful skin.

Taking a sip of my iced tea, I studied, for the millionth time, the constellation of freckles from her throat, down to the deep, inviting valley between her breasts; the exact spot where she placed one drop of perfume, each weekday morning, before turning to the full-length mirror in her bedroom to primp her hair.

Then, slipping her stockinged feet into a pair of low pumps, she headed for the door. Grabbing her purse, she said a quick "Bye, hon," before disappearing for nine hours.

When she returned that evening, the scent of perfume would still be there. Only now, it had comingled with the natural oils of her skin, a tinge of perspiration and a hint of cigarette smoke. Mom had quit the habit years ago, but still liked joining her friends who partook on the roof garden of the office building.

When I was younger and less conscious about my mother's body, I would press my face into her breasts, hugging her tightly, when she returned home. This was before her breasts had become sexualized in my young mind. That melding of scents filled my nostrils and haunt me to this day.

Now, with my burgeoning libido, I don't hug Mom nearly as much as before. At times, though, she insists, and I get a heavenly whiff of that magical scent. There have been times when I wanted to stand there, my face planted firmly in her soft cleavage, and rub my nose against her warm skin. Mom would gently rock me, side to side, and stroke my hair as I inhaled deeply.

"What?" Mom asked.

I looked up from the freckles to see her brow furrow inquisitively. Busted. Lamely, I sat back in my chair. "Nothing," I replied.

"Do I have something on me?" Mom gazed down at her valley, flanked by the lapels of her dark green robe. Tugging at the robe slightly, she revealed a few extra inches of breast, compounding my agitation.

Suffering a momentary lapse into honesty, I replied, "No, I was just looking at your freckles."

Mom glanced up at me.

"What about them?"

"Oh, nothing." I tried to wriggle free, but something inside betrayed me. "They're just nice."

Mom smiled suspiciously at me, as if waiting for the punch line. "Oh, really," she smirked.

"Yeah." I had come out with the truth, now I felt compelled to defend it. "They're nice." I resumed eating.

Snoring, Mom replied. "you're nuts." But the way she said it indicated Mom had been pleasantly flattered. She couldn't acknowledge it, though.

Briefly, I glanced up from my food and our eyes met. Immediately, we looked back to our plates, retreating into the noise of our utensils, which had become more noticeable. After several uneasy minutes, Mom broke the silence.

"There will be a lot more of them this summer," she said.

"What?" I asked.

Mom smiled again, nearly laughing at me. "Freckles, you dummy." She tugged at her robe, opening it even wider. If she wanted to talk about her freckles, I was more than willing to oblige.

"Hmm," I said facetiously, raising my eyebrows. "More to see."

I could never be certain, but I suspected that Mom rarely received any compliments, especially from men. She was pretty and nicely proportioned, at least to my adolescent sensitivities, but she was also decidedly middle-aged, and carried the baggage of having a son. Unlike today, factors like those didn't help her.

Turning her head askew, Mom gave me a sly grin. She acted as if no one had flirted with her in years.

"You little...," she paused, censoring herself, "you-know-what." Her skin flushed a darker hue. "What are you gawking at?"

I had made her self-conscious. Her only son was flirting with her. The nerve! Self-consciously, she pulled her robe closed and continued to eat in silence. Minutes passed without a word.

"You could use a sunlamp," I teased her.

Her fork skittered out of her hands, clattering against the plate. Sitting back, she sputtered.

"That enough talk about my freckles." She used the same tone with me as if I were five. "Enough, already."

Even at my age, I could relish the reactions and mannerisms of a woman. I had rattled her cage, but didn't want to freak her out entirely. We finished eating and I helped her wash the dishes. Not a word was spoken until I said plainly, "I love you."

Mom stopped, placing the dish back in the sink. Wordlessly, she took me in her arms. My face pressed against her freckles. I hadn't intended for that to happen, but now, I was overjoyed.

I raised my head and, before she released her hold, kissed her on the mouth. I cannot remember the last time I had kissed my mother on the mouth. So many years, it had been.

Mom jumped slightly, surprised by my unpremeditated action. Then she smiled, gazing into my eyes, and returned the kiss. She lingered a second more.

Longer than a mother's kiss.

Again, she hugged me tightly.

"I love you too, angel," her voice was low and cool. Turning back toward the sink, she said, "Let's get these dishes put up and go watch TV."

Our routine dictated that Mom recline in her brown, Naugahyde lounge chair while I lie on the shag carpet in front of the TV. Mom always made me lie at least five feet away from the 24-inch-screen console TV.

"You'll get radiation," was her excuse. A neighbor had advised her of the dangers of a large television screen.

We relaxed in silence as the light from the TV flickered on our faces. Although Baretta was fairly entertaining that evening, I found it nearly impossible to concentrate on the program. I kept looking over my shoulder, toward my mother, in her long robe. Looking at the corner of the TV screen, I could see the reflection of her bare feet and calves.

During a commercial break, she had gone to the bathroom, and upon returning, seated herself in different position. This time, she left her robe more open, exposing a silky leg and thigh.

I never saw how Baretta turned out, since I could not stop staring at her shapely leg. About the seventieth time I glanced over my shoulder to take another peek, Mom's eyes met mine.

"What?" Mom questioned, again, with an amused look on her face. I swung my face back toward the TV.

"Nothing," I replied quickly. I was appreciating your silky legs and want to kiss them all over.

Like I would ever have the courage to say that.

I lay there, still, only paying enough attention to the TV to recognize the "Movie of the Week" following our show. My cock had grown full and erect, so I had to shift my body around to keep from mashing it. As we watched the movie -- I don't remember a thing about it -- I noticed Mom shifting about in her chair, as if impatient. Or was it my imagination? The minutes steadily passed, like the constant dripping of water, until the movie was over.

"My," Mom spoke, jerking me out of my frozen state, "that was a long movie, but a good one."

"Yeah," I lied. I hoped she didn't want to talk about the movie. Mom spoke.

"Do you want to go upstairs to bed, or shall we pull out the sofa and go late?"

She referred to watching TV late into the night, which we did on a Friday or Saturday, until the national anthem played and the flickering images faded into snow.

"Sure," I said.

Standing, she began removing the cushions from our sleeper sofa. I stood as well, adjusting my now-painful erection as I helped Mom unfold the sofa into a full-sized bed.

"I'll try to stay awake as long as I can," she remarked, pulling back the blanket and fluffing the cushions.

She untied her robe and shrugged it from her shoulders. At that moment, the clock stopped. At that sweet moment, a vision confronted me that, initially, I had trouble comprehending. Mom, normally a woman of modest tastes in nightwear, as well as everything else she wore, was clad in a short, sleeveless nightie. The hemline stopped well above her knees, and the neckline provided me with the best view of her cleavage I had seen in years. The pale, blue fabric, while not see-through, had a distinctively sheer quality which allowed it to cling and flutter around her body lovingly.

I could barely make out the outlines of her tumescent areolas, wondering how they would look if her nipples become erect.

As soon as I realized the vision I was seeing, Mom disappeared under the blankets with a flash of silky thigh. As she propped a cushion behind her head, she lay back, sighing loudly as she pulled the blanket up to her chin. Nervous, I remained in the chair, but also wanted very much to join my mother under that thick, warm blanket.

For the next first hour, I remained in the chair, glancing over to my mother every few minutes. She had situated herself on the right side of the bed. The left side, completely undisturbed, cried out for a warm body to occupy its empty void. During a commercial break, I almost walked over to the bed. During another commercial break, Mom went to the kitchen for a glass of iced tea.

"Do you want something?" she asked casually, the backs of her thighs and calves retreating into the kitchen.

"No, Mom," I replied. Nothing from the kitchen, that is.

Nestling herself under the blankets once again, she looked at me.

"Are you comfortable in that chair?" she asked.

"I dunno," I replied weakly. Mom had made the invitation, so I could not refuse. Within minutes, I was slipping under the blanket, inches from my mother. Immediately, I felt the soothing warmth radiating from her body that was trapped under the blanket. Mom glanced at me, smiling.

"That better?" she almost cooed.

Much better, Mom.

I tried not to make a little tentpole with my erection.

My desire was to snuggle against her body, but I wasn't certain how Mom would react, so I watched TV for a little while longer.

With gladiators battling across the TV screen, I inhaled my mother's scent. Her body seemed to be manufacturing a little extra odor this evening. I knew she had bathed that morning, and I didn't find it unpleasant. Her usual scent was just a little more musky than usual. Once again, I found myself losing track of the television. I was concentrating on that odor emanating from her body. Inhaling, I breathed it in deeply.

The time that passed could have been hours but, in reality, was only thirty minutes. My penis still ached, having strained at full mast forever. The lump in my throat made it difficult to swallow and my nipples tingled against my tee-shirt.

A soft, whistling sound interrupted my torture. Mom had fallen asleep and was gently snoring. I turned slightly to see her parted lips and closed eyes. Now I could gaze -- at least at her face -- unfettered. When Mom fell asleep, she was out, and was not easily stirred.

I lie there, staring at the oak paneling for several minutes, until I reached for the TV remote. Extinguishing the glow from the tube, I scrunched under the blanket. Mom's light snoring had taken on a wave-like rhythm. As my eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, I watched her body rise and fall with each breath.

Dammit, I had to get some relief! My cock was hurting.

Gently, I pulled the blanket below my waist, lowering my shorts to allow my erection to rise into the cool air. With my mother breathing only a few inches from my ear, I grasped my aching cock, pulling the skin back tautly. The pleasurable sensation made me shiver. With my other hand draped over my chest, my thumb and forefinger pinched a nipple gently, rolling it back and forth through the thin tee-shirt while my other hand began stroking on my shaft.

All the while, I kept a careful ear on Mom's breathing, acquiring a rhythm of my own to compliment her breaths. While she snored away, I masturbated in silence, gently tugging my nipple, thinking of her semi-naked body resting beside me.

Red and black spots swam in the darkness as I concentrated on the sensation burning in my loins. With Mom only inches away, I could not jack myself to orgasm as quickly as I was accustomed. Not that this was a bad thing. Alone, my impatience would have forced me to blur my hand against my hardness until a gob of come cascaded down the underside of my shaft. Now, I was forced to hold back and control the repetitive movement of my arm. My nipple tingled as my fingers toyed at it roughly. My mind focused on the pleasure. My mother's breathing and the pleasure.

In the blackness, I envisioned my exposed body nestled by my mother in the softness of the bed. I envisioned my hand as hers, with its slender fingers and manicured nails. Shivering with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment, I pictured her mouth on my nipple, her lipstick-reddened lips pressed against my chest, sucking as powerfully as Mike had done only days before.

After an eternity of maddeningly controlled masturbating, it took me. The orgasm rose up, almost in slow motion, cresting in a gentle surge as I let out a whisper of a groan. But God, it lasted forever. I arched my back, clenching my teeth as I kept coming, coming to a peak. I felt as if my insides were coming out. I came and came, then came some more. I couldn't believe the intensity of what was happening as I lost track of Mom's breathing. I prayed I wouldn't soil myself too much, what with all the semen spurting out of me.

At last, the orgasm subsided. Lying there, for a very long time, I collected my thoughts, or tried. I had never had such a thorough, intense orgasm ever. It was like a cleansing element had gone through my body, removing all tension, spilling out the tip of my throbbing, purple helmet.

As I steadied my breathing, a cool wetness caught my attention. I touched my thigh and found a splotch of seminal goo. I also noticed another trickle cooling wetly on my other thigh. God, what a mess I made! Reaching behind my back, I carefully slid my tee-shirt over my head. Bunching it into a loose ball, I began to wipe the sticky mess from my body, feeling around carefully to see if any more come remained to be found.

Tossing the shirt aside, I sank back into the warm bed. Again pulling the blanket to my chin, I sighed as the soft fabric passed over my bare chest, teasing my still-hardened nipples.

I turned on my side, away from Mom. Watching the psychedelic pattern of shifting splotches return in the darkness, I listened to the hum of the air-conditioning unit in the hallway closet and the slow, steady rhythm of my own breathing.