Chapter 3

This will be the final chapter in the series. Where we pull it all together. Very much appreciate those who’ve read from the beginning and I do believe you’ll be satisfied you did by the end of things here. In it together, eh.

So. Listen. My mom sucked my cock.

Fuckin’ crazy, right?

Wild.

Under the table. Threw all my butter around. Dressed up her fabulous titties in Hollandaise sauce and felt no need to apologize this time. Just a couple days before, we somehow fell into having sex on the phone. Mom can’t help but wanna assist with these persistent and troublesome boners I’m sporting around the house for days on end and the solution somehow ends up being a phone in the ear. Talks to me like a dirty whore. Okay. That’s wicked enough but alright, the entire human race is in Quarantine so ... people go a little sideways maybe. Then a follow up call exposes the fact that, you know, maybe she IS just a dirty whore after all and - yeah, that’s a good thing. Then we end up masturbating ourselves with nothing but a table in between. Her panties end up on my plate and she then wolfs down my jizz like it’s ice cream. And then goes berserk. Locks herself in her room, lost her marbles. Yup. I guess I can’t blame her. That’s a lot to deal with. A tectonic shift in the plates of our relationship. Surely.

And once she finally comes out of there? Maybe 15 minutes later I get the suck of a lifetime and blow happiness all over her unrelenting want of it.

So now what?

Um, lots more of that I would hope. Correct?

So lemme take you through that.

Following the world’s greatest blowjawb ever - we talked, rather honestly and openly, in a noticeably relaxed manner - on the phone again. For some reason that felt safer. Even though we’re really only separated by a hallway. And I learn a few more things about who Mom is that I didn’t know. How maybe all those other things that just occurred could. Mainly, my fat cock is irresistible for her (but let’s not let me land it all on a self-serving ego trip).

There’d been a disconnect between us. An unspoken one. And even through these conversations we still had not exactly addressed that. Wouldn’t know how, perhaps. Hadn’t exactly defined it well enough to recognize I suppose, Freud.

And why fuck with it to the point that it’s no longer beneficial? I mean, why not give things a chance to fix themselves, eh. Seemed like we were getting there.

I certainly wasn’t complaining.

“Good morning, Mister Penis.”

No, I’m serious. That’s what she said. Verbatim.

I’m sitting there at the kitchen table once more, having Cheerios. And I didn’t even have a boner. She just throws that in my general direction anyway and helps herself to a cup of coffee I brewed since I’d got down there before she did this time (we sort of traded off that way, becoming more lazy to our prior schedules as Covid days continued forward).

“Really?” I pretend to be annoyed, “I’m right here and nothing for me, eh? It’s all about the penis?”

It was then that I realized the morning light could shine right through the sweater she had on. Her tits were stacked up way too high to not be wearing a bra this time. Not that they don’t fall to rest a lot higher than they scientifically maybe oughta without one. I can’t much complain either way. But I’d thought it was a pretty thick (and bright) pink sweater. Not the sort of thing you’d immediately suspect you could peek through. It wasn’t like a crappy knit or something, had some sort of unimportant design of yarn on it but the threads were all closed out. Hung loose around her waist - not too tight unless you’re carrying what my Mom has got under there around. Nothing ain’t too tight for those. I’d been dealing with that all my life, you understand. But anyway, she had volunteered herself and that cup of coffee over by the sliding glass door, while snuggling herself a sip of morning brew.

You could see right fucking through that thing enough to almost know the color of her bra beneath it.

“OhmyGOD,” no wonder she’d already called me Penis. Knew damn well what was she was gonna cause in wearing that covert bullshit.

But, “What?” she played coy.

“You’re ... TITS! Jesus, Mom.”

For a moment I wondered if that fence outside was high enough that no one could have happenstance noticed my mother under the table the day before. We hadn’t closed the blinds at all in weeks.

“I’m wearing a sweater. What’s the harm?”

There was a young glint in her eye.

“Mom ... that’s not a sweater.”

“It is. I bought it off the sweater rack in fact. Cash money. Wanna see the receipt?”

Wait, no one is allowed to see my mom in that. Nuh uh. What’s been going on here while I’ve been off at college?

“When did you buy that?”

“At some point,” she smiled shy into her cup off coffee.

“When?” I asked once more.

Am I getting jealous? Maybe. Those are mine and no one else is to look at them.

“At some point. Prior to your arrival. In the Winter.”

She was something near laughing now. Torturing me intently. All in the guise of a hopeless little angel who oopsie doopsie may have bought a bright pink titty sweater that anyone under the sun can see right through and I don’t give a damn if it was Winter or any other time of the year.

“This Winter?” I asked. As if that would matter somehow.

“Maybe.”

And somehow it did. She was really enjoying this and possibly even my line of questioning. Toying with me while I was interrogating her. Apparently she WANTED me to wonder what might be going on when I’m not around.

“Have you ever worn that out in public?”

I needed to know.

“Um. Not exactly.”

I paused. There were problems in my shorts I had to identify.

“I’ve worn it out but ... not by itself,” she continued. “Am I not safe to wear it in front of my own son?”

Maybe not by itself would mean she’s smart enough to wear something else beneath it? But more importantly, had offered me a little reminder nudge on perhaps why she wasn’t right now, Mister Penis.

“Might that be WHY you’re wearing it?”

She managed to hide a giggle within another sip of coffee.

“Maybe.”

Followed by a seductively sinful smirk.

“Let yer old mom have a little bit of fun,” she finally gave in and fessed up. “At least I’m not carrying an elephant trunk around in my pants that might trumpet off at any moment.”

Point taken.

“Well that was kinda rude. Mam.” I had to add the Mam part just to turn the screws on her a little.

“Possibly. Shall I immediately endure a spanking of some sort then?”

Wasn’t quite sure if she meant for me to spank upon Mister Penis - who was growing more and more interested in that as her little charade persisted - or the more common understanding of what punishment means to others.

Only, it didn’t much sound like that would feel quite so punishable for her.

Either option, actually.

“Would you like that?” I asked, somewhat pensively.

She laughed and cast that thought aside as casually preposterous.

“Of course NO ONE likes to be spanked, my dear.”

She moved away from the window and found a spot across from me near the sink.

Is it incidental that I’m able to watch her ass in doing so?

Doubtful.

“No one?”

“Undoubtedly I wouldn’t think so. What sort of person might enjoy such a thing?”

Oh, well lookie there. Half a cup was suddenly enough and so she must turn now and spill the rest of her coffee and cream into the pure white ceramic, and wash that little cup right now. Can’t leave that there for later at all. A few more dishes nearby in fact. Why not fill the tub with water and watch the bubbles grow.

... while I move my humble ass around. No one might be looking at me with any disdainful interest at all.

She was wearing somewhat stubborn jeans on below. They held her ass firmly but left a little wiggle room for her to also advantage. Which she did of course. A pro at this when she wants to be, who knew?

“Are you indicating you might expect some sort of reasonable punishment for wearing such an irresponsible ... sweater?”

Cuz maybe I’m finding I like this game as well.

“A spanking? From my own son? What sort of mother would allow for that kind of thing?” she repeat herself some. “Surely you wouldn’t think I would?”

She paused at the sink for a moment.

Suddenly the dishes became lots less important. Her legs tightened up and her knees collected together for some odd reason, a little bit wobbly. Her butt clenched tightly. Holding herself together somehow.

“Something’s not quite right. Would you excuse me for a moment, my dear?”

She trotted off for the guest use bathroom just ‘round the corner from the kitchen. The wobbly knees went on happening a little but she did her best to remain as much a classy lady as possible despite that.

The moment the bathroom door closed I could hear her talking to herself.

“Uh...” alright, I think I know that sound. “UGH ... fuck yes. That’s right.” Yep, I know that sound. “Fuck yes, pussy.”

And yes I’ve got my own full-fledged boner by now.

“Pussy like that?” she asked herself. “BAD gurl! Bad girl, pussy.”

SMACK.

She smacked herself in there somewhere. You might guess the most likely location. And you’re wrong if you said ass.

“OH yes!!” I think she was cumming. “MISTER penis. You scoundrel.”

Yup. She came. Indeed.

She lingered in the bathroom for a few minutes more. I let her collect herself or whatever else she felt necessary. Man my cock feels all kinds of important lately. Whatcha got next for us, lady? I’m now confident enough to wait on it.

As she reintroduced herself to the kitchen she was thumbing back in the direction of the bathroom she just left, “Princess. Had to ... oh nevermind.” But of far greater interest - there wasn’t a goddamned bra on under there anymore. Poof. Gone.

Her dark nipples were astoundingly long enough, or stiff enough, to hold the sweater up somewhat but quite fairly the area most challenged by her bust had dropped a little further from the shoulders. And I might like that a little bit better if I’m being honest. I don’t know what the fuck she meant by “Princess” but who cares. Let’s talk some more about MISTER Penis!!

She was fanning herself a little now, recaptured her position by the sink but wasn’t advertising her ass no more since that got taken care of, I guess. She rest it against the counter instead and watched my eyes adjust to her recent removal made up top.

Smiling. A little more openly naughty now.

“Would you mind if I sorta kinda played just a little bit hard to get, today?”

She asked me especially sweetly. It wasn’t a command at all, not nearly. Wanted to make it clear this is a request and not her being a bitch. It’s not a rejection thing. And it’s absolutely temporary.

“I think we both now know I’d love nothing more than to suck your great big titty-fuck cock right this moment but ... can we pretend I’m just a teensie bit less than an absolute slut?”There wasn’t any phone in her hand. And it wasn’t on the counter either. Not in a pocket. Not there at all in fact. Apparently she was plenty comfortable enough now to not even hide under the table while addressing these ... concerns of ours. “I’m not though. I really am most assuredly just a big-tittied cum slut. Who can’t stop thinking about how fantastic it felt to have your great Godzilla monster cock fucked in and out of my whorish sore throat.”

She choked a bit and indicated that with her hand.

“But it is plenty sore you know,” again offering an example. “I haven’t had anything like that in my throat in a very ... VERY long time.” She moved to create a glass of water now for herself. Which I didn’t mind. Mesmerized by her now naked-under-there tapping titties, tugging that substantially challenged sweater around.

“I have toys though,” she would continue exposing everything. Not much acting Hard to Get if you ask me but okay. “And I fuck them a lot. I fuck all my holes with them. Each and every one.” She drank from the water glass. Set it down and fanned herself again. “Well, not each and every one gets to fuck all my holes, you understand. They all serve certain purposes. But all of my holes do get fucked. Each and every one of them. Lots and lots.”

Then she stopped and set herself to rest again. Her hands to either side on the counter behind her. Breasts lit up like a profile in courage - saluting me consequentially.

Some of this had been discussed the night before on the phone. Or, indications of this sort of thing. She hadn’t gone into a “history of men” or anything but I got the impression there have certainly been something more than zero since my father but not at all too many. And she’d done it covertly. No other dick has been in this house other than me. Well, and her suitcase full of toys apparently. Or rather - that black chest with the keyhole I’d often wondered about. That’s where she kept them all.

The key would remain in her purse, she’d told me the night before. Never gonna not have that on her.

Suddenly she began to feel her boobs up. As if she was standing in a mirror and I wasn’t there at all. Only, she was looking right at me. Not at all pretending I wasn’t present but rather that I might be the mirror she most wants to see herself through?

She tugged on her duty-bound nipples and twisted them some. Appeared to be showing me the way she might like that done. If I were ever lucky enough to get my hands on them again. Or if she was ever unlucky enough that I won’t.

Then she let go and studied me once more.

“Wanna see ‘em?”

I just nodded.

Let her play her game. Remain in the seat. And don’t take your cock out. Afford her all the attention she might require and don’t make it much about yourself at all. She’d earned it.

Her arms crossed over and snatched at the edges of that meekly oversized and mock innocent pink sweater. And she pulled it slowly up over herself. Folding the bottom over her own face for a veil of yarn on whatever my reaction might be.

I gasped.

That was the best I could manage from the vantage point of not doing anything. Kept it to a gasp.

Glorious. In a word. Spectacular. Mind-shattering. Preposterously perfect. And other fine adjectives of merit. Were her tits holding the pointy ends up like that or were the pointy ends in charge of the rest of the tits? And how can any of that not cry and throw a fit without a mouth wrapped around one suitably? I felt lonely, and much too far away from her.

Her hands went down to the buttons on her jeans. Unsnapped and pushed them down off her hips enough that they would fall to the floor on their own. Never removing that sweater from over her head (no telling how much she could see of me like I could her).

She wasn’t wearing panties at all. Nothin’ there but notably fleshy pink pussy and a healthy bush above it. I loved that she had a healthy bush, I’m not a fan of bald pussy. I don’t want to fuck a child. I want a woman down there for me. Her cage was especially puffy and quite alarming in how deliberately so. Cameltoe extreme. Thicker than a pair of knuckles, no doubt. Within that she had an impressively pronounced clitoral hood - probably a third or more of a pinky’s worth, and maybe near that thick.

She knew I’d need to see what that’s about and without a moments hesitation she reached down there and pulled her hood back, popping out her precious shiny and unpurchaseable pearl.

I watched that and her wonderful bewbs dance between her arms as her other hand had come down and pushed her butterfly wings away, making room from the outer flesh so she could instantly rub herself off to another mind-numbing orgasm.

And I was numb. Watching this. I forgot I even had a cock for a moment.

Maybe I wanted to crawl my way all back up in there somehow.

Like Nirvana.

Return myself to her Heart-Shaped Box.

And just as quickly it was over.

She shook the sweater back down despite the resistance of her titties, swung them around unintentionally while reaching down to retrieve her jeans and button things back up.

Her eyes remained on me the entire time she did that.

Another curious smile on her face. Reflecting my own perhaps.

“Thanks,” she said, once she was all put back together. Poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.

Then added.

“Wanna watch a movie tonight? I’d really like it if you wore your old pajamas.”

Wait, what?

“But I know they no longer fit. All that,” she drew her hand around in a circular motion, indicating my area of “greatest” concern. “So I took the liberty of ordering you another pair online. They’re larger. Overall. Should be a box on the doorstep by this afternoon,” a sip of the cup was used to obfuscate the curl coming on at the edge of her lips. “Um ... is Superman okay? I thought about Spiderman, cuz of all the webbing you know but...”

I could only waddle my head in minor disbelief and cartoonish curiosity, as opposed to the very pleasant smile of harmless mischief she now wore openly while detailing her goofy plans for me this evening.

“SUPERman, ya know? Big and bold? Tall buildings and all that? Man of steel. Probably fucks the hell out of Lois Lane once those glasses come off. Or maybe not.”

Again her delicate while notably resolved smile went into her coffee cup as she made her way towards the light of the patio doors again.

“Mom, I don’t think they actually...”

“Shh,” she cut me off. “Don’t ruin it. My turn today.”

Okay, fair enough.

“There’s always room for opportunity. But anyway,” she reached the door and slid it away to enable a very welcoming outdoors, the birds were out there chirping. I’d almost forgotten they existed. “If you were willing to wear that with me tonight I think I’d appreciate it very much. Cuz, whatever happens happens. Ya know?”

Her eyes turned away near the end there as she stepped outside with a simple cup of warm coffee in hand and peacefully found a pleasant seat in the sun.

Braless. Beneath a pink sweater.

Good for her.

Possibly concerning limited fence line or otherwise. Fuck it.

I felt I needed to hit the bathroom myself for a spell. Splash some water on my face or whatnot.

When I got in there I found a little surprise. I guess it was “Princess”. A reasonably small while elegant buttplug, standing upright next to the sink on the counter. And also quite bright pink.

Guess she’s not gonna lock all that away after all.

I looked ridiculous. Superman Pajamas? Really? Why do they even make these in my size?

“Oh my gawd, oh my god,” Mom began jumping up and down like an infant herself, slapping her hands together with glee, “You’re so precious. Oh my gosh, oh my goodness...” etc, etc.

She grabbed my hand and danced us off downstairs. I don’t know how we didn’t break our ankles or any of the steps on the way down with all the bouncing going on. And yes, you hopeless perverts, her booba looked terrific while doing that after I’d opened my bedroom door, and her ass as well also as we moved on beyond where I’d been.

“Come with me, come with me...”

Okay, okay. Have your fun. Whatever. I feel silly.

I never wore Superman anyway, what is she thinking? It might have been Sponguebob or even Dora the Explorer, so let’s not pretend I’m the comic book king. I only used to be a kid once, that’s all.

Eventually she had me tugged into the living room and sat me down in my usual spot on the couch. She didn’t grab hers though, was too busy hugging me as if I was in nursery school again, ‘Mama’s gonna send you off to school today with your favorite Peanut Butter and Jelly! Oh boy!!’ Smooch, smooch, shmooch. All that.

So maybe I didn’t mind the smooching completely. Maybe I didn’t mind having her jumbo happy-chest smashed up against me all over again. Maybe that did remind me of Popcorn Night a little bit. Maybe it’s not so bad. And I can wear pajamas cuz that’s how we’d do it. But do they really have to be completely geek?!

It wasn’t a one piece. She knew I wouldn’t go for that. And besides, I never wore the one piece beyond like 1st grade anyhow. Truth be told the bottoms were pretty comfortable. I had room to move around in them, pretty fairly. The button down top felt dumb though. For some reason.

Before she eventually slid herself off to her usual corner (and the blanket which she ignored), she actually pat my groin down softly and deftly arranged the loophole. And THAT was never part of the process prior, to my knowledge. I hadn’t bothered closing any buttons down there, and she made sure I hadn’t. “Okay, that’s alright then. No one will know. We’re fine.” And then generally just kinda made sure, in the oddest of modest ways, that things we’re all situated there just so. Um yeah - her OCD had kicked in, I guess. I’m not gonna lie, it was not only odd but I found it plenty confusing. “Okay then ... don’t move. I mean, you can get comfortable but leave that alone there, okay? Try your best to be good now please.”

And then she sat back into her corner, um, not all that normally at all. She sat there far too upright and wasn’t the least bit relaxed. Checking her vantage point on me several times.

Me neither. For the record. Not relaxed.

Until finally she sorta ... laid out what she was after here.

“Okay. I know this is weird. Try not to hate me but. Um.” She paused for a moment and then just threw a whole slew of words together real fast. “Some thoughts have taken place over the years and you would sometimes be accidental in here and I never knew what or how to do anything about it so we’re in here now and ... let’s watch a movie.”

I tried to let that sink in before she offered up one final thought on the matter.

“Everything’s fine.”

And - doink. Turned on the TV. Pulled up a movie she’d already prepped at the ready.

Maybe this is the oddest part. I do remember the name of the movie for this. It was called Magnolia. Annnnnnd ... well it’s not exactly the kind of film that makes you think Underoos. Or happy accidents, perhaps.

Weird.

Green, Berry, Hill.

Essentially that’s how the movie opens.

We sat there quietly and watched it unfold.

I won’t bore you with the details or a summary but it’s a very unique film. There are lots of - connection points. The camera almost acts like a 3rd eye, following humanity around. It’s relatively hypnotizing with a soundtrack/score that nearly never stops carrying you along. But there’s a WHOLE lot to cover, just pinballing about all over the place.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen it. I’d watched it with my mother before. I didn’t find it all that breathtaking then but she did. She’s seen it several times by my count that I’m aware of and likely several more times that I’m not.

During the first 20 minutes or so she was plenty fidgety.

Never got comfortable. Kept her back upright and her hands in her lap. Like a schoolmarm. But could not stop trying to get out of that position somehow.

“Mom,” I was gonna offer some advice on comfort but she answered to that immediately.

“I’m sorry, I’m just. This is exciting for me on a level I just wasn’t prepared for.” Really? That’s an “excited” position she’s in? Really? “I can’t calm down.”

Hmm...

Alright. Leave her alone. Don’t smother. She’ll settle down on her own.

Then Tom Cruise came onto the screen.

Ohhhhhhhh yeah, now I might know what this is about.

Respect. The Cock.

Yeah. Yeah. Now I think I get it.

One of her hands urgently left that lap the moment the monolithic music kicked in and forcefully grabbed the edge of the couch not far away from her thigh. I should mention, she was wearing a very comfortable looking night robe she often wore when we would “popcorn”. It wasn’t super sexy but it wasn’t all that old hat either. Satin or some fake version of that. Polyester is it? I don’t know the names of things. It could open up all the way if not for the tie built into the waist but she would wear another blouse beneath that meant to compliment the robe, plus some little sleep shorts. I’ll let you invent whatever color you like for that outfit (out of appreciation for your own possible preference).

It suddenly dawned on me when her hand went near the rim of her robe to grab the bottom cushion - that might be a little high on the thigh for a “Mom” to be wearing. Had I not ever thought that before? Why would I not have noticed that? Or is that maybe why I might have endured a little bit of extra trouble on some of these occasions in the past? Was that intentional on her part? Is that what she’s telling me?

In any case, this must be the part where I’m supposed to take out my cock, right? I mean - duh, it’s right there on the screen. So I started to.

“No. Don’t do that.”

She rescinded that as an option for me straight away.

“Don’t take it out. Even if I ask you to.”

Okay, what are we really doing here exactly? Maybe I don’t get it.

“I’m confused. Don’t do what you tell me to?”

Ain’t this Mom’s fantasy night? How do I do nothing to assist with that? Why would that be any good?

“Ohmygawd, don’t make this more difficult. Don’t toy with me, I can barely breathe.”

TOY with her? I mean I’m wanting to but she’s got me all confused on what she wants or doesn’t want from The Cock. Maybe Cruise is right. Decide it for ‘em?

To further challenge my non-involvement she summarily used her other hand to begin squeezing her boob real hard. The left one went for boob and the right one kept itself clawed in tight on the couch (I was on her right, reasonably close by).

“Denise. Denise the piece,” Cruise went on saying from the screen.

“Well that’s not gonna help me not take it out,” I frankly admit, regarding the boob grab going on. I quietly began to reach out for the free one.

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t be doing that,” but the molestation of her own boob continued right on as it were. However, she deftly slapped away my attempt to fondle her under-appreciated other one without even looking and then threw that fist back to collide with the cushion edge alongside her thigh again, exactly the same as it was before. Like she’d been practicing that maneuver for 19 years or so. “It’s just ... well I’m having trouble matching reality up with fantasy.”

Okay, I’d officially been made aware that I don’t know what I’m dealing with here. This is some shit she’s been subverting for years now.

“You fantasized about this?”

I asked for a volunteer of information as unobtrusively as I could.

“Well not exactly. Women have a way of avoiding what they’re thinking. Kinda.”

Alright. That’s interesting. If not outright insane.

“Oooookay...”

“Shhh, don’t make fun of me,” she admonished. “Just ... it needs to happen by accident. Don’t take it out. Let it happen on its own.”

Well maybe there is some fessing up I can afford. Maybe I’m not quite in such a helpless position as I thought I was. Just need to exercise a bit of courage, perhaps.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret. It wasn’t exactly an accident before.”

Her head finally turned to mine and identified me for the first time since the movie had begun.

“What?! Oh you little shit!” She almost appeared to be horrified.

“Well it kinda was but it kinda wasn’t.” Not that I was gonna retreat on her. I’m in. “I was aware it was happening a few times. Let’s just say that.”

She studied me once again, as she had many times over the years. Her face comports in on her brow and it’s all rather fucking intimidating if I have to admit it. Had I just turned her “fantasy” into a butt-kicking turnaround?

“So is your fantasy blown now?”

But I gave her back my own accountability. You’re looking at the face of truth, Mom. It is what it is.

I can faintly recall my little pecker falling out of my pajamas a few times in the past. I noticed maybe Mom didn’t mind. Nothing went wrong. So, I guess we’re kind of proud of our peckers at a very young age but we’re just not sure why they need to be put away so often. So I tested it a few times, on purpose, maybe two handfuls of times. Over several advancing years. I do remember waking up once at some point in high school and it was mostly all out of there and not completely slumbering. In fact I was in the midst of growing an ongoing erection. At which point I sort of folded over on mom’s lap and pretended I was fast asleep; was able to tuck it away. THAT ONE was an accident. Other than that I can’t know how many times may have occurred where I hadn’t known about it cuz I WAS asleep. Only she’d know that I guess.