Chapter 5

My mother did have more, or at least better, control than I did.

While she took her bath I stood outside the door, listening to her hum, and masturbated. Later that night, in my own bed, I masturbated again.

But it wasn’t too bad for the next six days, as I waited not all that patiently for Friday to roll around. I jerked off a lot more than I had in the past. It was an easy cum to imagine her with one of her adult toys, using it while she thought of me. I know that’s kind of vain, but since I could no longer think of any other woman when I jerked a load out - not even Mrs. Gaskill - I didn’t think it was a stretch that she might imagine me while she took care of things.

It would be two years before I learned she masturbated even more than I did, back in those days. She’d been pretty happy getting busy with Mr. Dildo once a week before I inadvertently overwhelmed her defenses. In the three weeks after that, she masturbated four or five times a day. Once, she said she jilled off in the car, between appointments.

But she was cool as a cucumber when she was around me.

With the exception of Friday nights.

It turned out Mrs. Gaskill was quite happy with Phil and what turned out to be his actually oversized dong. She told my mother it wasn’t actually his size that hooked her, though that helped, but his willingness to listen to her about how to best use it. That gave my mother the idea of teaching me things.

So, each Friday night, quite often after we stopped off at Kelsey’s for a drink, we would try something new at home. Things didn’t get too wild at Kelsey’s after that first blowout. Part of that was because the regulars already knew who Mom and Maureen were. The initial shock of two gorgeous women coming into the bar was gone. Another part was that it became pretty clear that Maureen and Phil were a thing, and that Jennifer and Bob were another thing. After the third or fourth time we all arrived together (Phil was always waiting for her after art lab on Friday nights), it was old hat, as far as the others were concerned. There was still some dancing, but the tables were back on the dance floor. Mickey was smart enough that he planned - and advertised - line dancing nights, when he cleared the dance floor just for that reason.

At this late date, I don’t actually remember the order things went in, with my mother and me. It was too long, and too many things ago. I remember what happened, but not in what sequence.

One Friday night, for example, we got home and, after a smoking-hot kiss in the kitchen, during which she rubbed her loins against mine and moaned, she pulled back and said, “I noticed tonight that I need to take care of some stubble. You want to help me?”

I had never shaved anything but my own face. I tried to be an attentive student as we got naked. She said we both had to be naked while this happened and I didn’t argue. I had to rub the lather in a lot, way more than I thought was “necessary,” but I didn’t point that out. She was propped up in bed, leaning back on a stack of pillows, with her knees bent and her legs wide open. There was a towel under her butt. I was as hard as stone, but I had actually practiced trying to make my masturbatory sessions last longer, drawing them out, imagining myself lasting long enough that she got her cookies. I had no idea how to give a woman her cookies, but I knew she could get them. I had a dim memory of my mother’s voice, groaning about cumming.

Finally she handed me the razor and I carefully dragged it through the lather. I don’t know if it’s that they make women’s razors differently, or because I was hyper-aware, but I could actually feel the blade slicing through hairs. It was amazing. And when I went over a place I’d already gotten I could tell I’d already gotten it.

Eventually there was more clean skin, streaked with white, than there were unshaven areas. I had my thumb on the top of her split, because she’d instructed me to ‘stabilize’ things by doing that. It wasn’t until I was almost finished that I realized that was where her mysterious clit was.

When I was in high school I went out with a girl named Jolene. Jolene was hot to trot, so much so that she said she wasn’t a virgin and wanted me to fuck her. It was so out of character for the girls I knew that it scared me a little bit. Or maybe worried me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. It was more like what kept popping into my mind was that, if she fucked around, she might have a disease or something. Oh, and the fact that I barely knew her. I thought it was kind of crazy that she’d just do that with a virtual stranger.

Anyway she got my hand in her pants, during the process, and I rubbed away like I thought I was supposed to do. I had no idea what I was doing. I knew girls had clits, but nothing about what to do with one. She acted like she was having a good time, though. Eventually, we both got mostly naked, but all that worrying I’d been doing had taken its toll. I couldn’t get hard. Not hard enough to penetrate her, anyway.

It was a disaster. She was obviously disgusted. She never dimed me out about it, which was good. But the best part of it was that, three weeks later, she announced that she was pregnant and that Tom Buckingham was the father. I thought it was interesting that she’d gone out with me on Friday night, and Tom the following night. He did fuck her, apparently, so he could believe it was his kid. It was also interesting that she had that baby prematurely. Tom’s parents had been taking care of her medical bills and all that. When the baby was born almost two months early, but was a fully formed infant, things went to shit for Jolene.

My point is that, even though I dodged that particular bullet, I also didn’t learn a whole lot about Ms. Clitoris.

My mother was a great teacher. I mentioned the appearance of her sexual opening. It looked like something had broken open and was spilling out. I learned all about outer and inner labia. I thought it was fascinating that, before she had me, her outer labia had been closed and firm. After I was born, her inner labia protruded. She thought it looked awful and only after Mrs. Gaskill laughed at her about it, did she realize that some people found that to be sexy.

She also found out I thought it looked sexy ... yummy ... good enough to eat.

I wanted nothing more than to climb on her, put my penis in her, and ejaculate. Really, I could have done that and been quite happy. This is probably what the vast majority of men (so the women in my life tell me) do. They satisfy their own initial craving and, if they think of the woman at all, assume she can get her jollies whenever she wants to.

On the other hand, I wanted to play with those full pussy lips, and hear her sighs and moans as she taught me to rub gently, and hard, in circles, and across the stiff bud. At one point I got ahead of schedule and couldn’t resist leaning forward to kiss what I’d been rubbing.

“Yessss, suck it,” she hissed.

That commenced a whole new chapter in the clitoris book. It took me maybe ten full minutes to learn what drove her crazy. That drove me crazy, too. And, when I finally stood on my knees and started jerking off because I just couldn’t stand it any longer, she reached and pulled, guiding the tip of my prick to those swollen, bulging lips. I watched as my prick pushed aside loose skin and slid into her.

And I spurted. Just like that. I barely got it all the way in her. Talk about your premature ejaculations.

She cooed that it was okay and pulled me down to make out. She didn’t mind kissing my lips, even though they were covered with her juices. I kept pushing, trying to cum more, even after I was finished. I was very unhappy because it was over too quickly. At the same time, making out with her was a blast.

Eventually she pushed me off of her and sucked me until I was long and stiff again. She pushed me onto my back and mounted me, cowgirl style. It was just as new as everything else, so I just went with it. She felt good, sinking down on me. She looked good, sitting up there, with her thrusting breasts and those long, stiff nipples.

She moved almost languidly, talking softly, telling me what she was doing. She leaned forward and gave me the blow by blow as she rubbed an orgasm out. It was fascinating, watching her face twist and scrunch up as she came. This position, or maybe the fact that I’d cum already, made it easy to just be there, like a new adult toy she was using.

She taught me about how a woman could have multiple orgasms by having three on top of me.

Then she went from being completely in charge, to lying on her back with her heels by her ears and making herself helpless as I slid into her again. This was strange, because my chest was resting on the back of her thighs. I could tell I was going much deeper, and felt the tip of my prick abusing something firm at the end of her tunnel.

“I can’t stop you from cumming in me,” she panted.

I was so preoccupied with how this felt that I just kept stroking.

“I’m helpless in this position,” she wheezed.

I started to let my weight off of her and her hands came to grip my elbows. Her intent was crystal clear. She wanted to be helpless.

“You can cum in me any time you want to when I’m like this,” she whined.

“I’m going to,” I said, wondering if that was the right thing to say.

“You shouldn’t,” she moaned. “It’s the wrong time of the month.”

I was confused. Remember, I had so little experience that I’d never thought about things from a birth control point of view. I didn’t understand, then, what this time of the month had to do with anything. I knew she had periods, because I knew she got PMS. It wasn’t awful when she did, though. She was just sulky and moody and I usually left her alone.

But I never thought about what her having periods meant, biologically. We’d had a section on it in health, but I wasn’t the best student back then, and I hadn’t thought it would ever mean anything. It was just like math. When in the world would I ever need to know trigonometry? So it was easy to not pay all that much attention.

But I also sensed that something was going on here that was another new thing she was teaching me. I knew adults engaged in role play. Wasn’t that what the Little French Maid outfit was all about? So I thought maybe she was playing some role.

“I’m going to,” I said, trying to sound firm.

“You shouldn’t,” she moaned.

“I’m going to,” I said again.

“I can’t stop you,” she groaned.

What I didn’t know was that there was no role playing going on at all. Not then. She’d showed me that position because the quarterback had made her get that way lots of times. He’d told her how helpless she was while he intentionally inseminated her, trying to knock her up. She found out later that he always did that with the girls who fell for his lines. The rumor was that he got two other girls pregnant before his parents shipped him off to Yale. His father knew how to help him avoid responsibility though.

He’d messed her mind up, back then. She’d only been fifteen, and he’d dominated her completely. Some part of her grew to want that, in some form or fashion. In psychology, we studied about how some children intentionally get into trouble to get attention from their parents. It’s the only way they know to get that attention and the parents are too damaged themselves to understand they aren’t giving the child what it needs. Something like that was going on in my mother, but it was different too. She’d worked for years and years to get her mind healthy. She’d never been able to shake her distrust of men in general but now she was with a man she loved and wanted to have touch her sexually. She put herself in the position that had unhappy and uncomfortable memories associated with it, but she did it with a man she loved, hoping that it would be different.

It worked, in a way. She wasn’t terrified when I kept going. I did cum in her that way, and I was probably pretty enthusiastic about it. It did displace some bad memories. But we never did it that way again.

What I guess I’m trying to say is that there was no user manual for us to read. She had experience out the wazoo, but some of it wasn’t happy experience. I rarely knew what the hell was going on. I was just along for the ride. But the passion we shared, the depth of love we felt for each other, helped us rise above the difficult parts. It was amazing, considering that all this was completely taboo, and that neither of us could ask for help or get any wisdom from anybody else.