Eric Olafson Midshipman Vol 4 Part 52 WETMOUTH
- 4 years ago
- 27
- 0
Mom's Soft, Warm, Wet Mouth free porn video
My body stiffened as I felt her soft, warm, wet mouth envelop me for the first time. The sensation far exceeded anything I had ever felt from my own hard, thrusting fist. The aroma of her familiar expensive scent drifted up toward my nose. Her flaming red hair cascaded down, obscuring her face and my loins, as though she were trying to hide her identity from me as she introduced me to the wonderful adult world of fellatio.
Only moments earlier, her soft, long fingers, with long nails polished so deeply red as to make her hair appear orange, had stroked my shaft slowly as she kissed my engorged purple crown for the first time. Her tongue had flicked out quickly to capture the drop of moisture oozing from my piss slit. Her green eyes had twinkled with the joy of the power she had over me, the joy of the pleasure she intended to present to me.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I was a horny fourteen year old snot, five foot two, slim, with glasses but not a nerd. Nor was I a star athlete or big man on campus; much as any kid likes to admit it, I was average. She on the other hand was a luscious but quiet thirty-three 'lady who lunched' — by which I mean a woman with enough money not to need a job - with breasts and hips barely exceeding her age. Shorter than I when barefoot, she always sported killer heels, which accentuated her slim, almost waif-like figure. Her name was Sharon, but she never let me use it. I was limited to calling her by her title, Mom.
She was all I had in the world, and vice versa. It was as it had been for the past three years. Until that memorable day, life had been a bowl of cherries. Then one day, she had been driving home from one of her numerous visits to Needless Markup. That was one of the upscale stores where the sales people knew her by name, calling her Sharon or Mrs. Green, depending upon their seniority in the store. They fought to be her personal shopper, knowing that big tickets brought high commissions. And she never returned anything, because everything that she bought looked so well on her. All of this was financed by careful inheritance from her grandparents and astute real estate investing by Dad, whose sideline was dentistry.
As it happened, road construction had forced her to change her usual route, causing her to drive her brand new bright yellow Hummer right past Dad's stand-alone office building. It had been a Wednesday, traditionally a golf day for three-quarters of the dentists in this country. So what was his courtly black Bentley with its vanity plate doing parked near the door, alongside a Buick with his Dental Hygienist's nickname on its plate? Had he left his car there and gone to the course in Tom's car? But then why was that pneumatic bimbo's car there? No dumb blond she — though her red hair, if left unattended, would revert to its natural blond — Mom had parked and tried the front door.
Locked, as she had sadly guessed. This hadn't been the first time; of that she was sure. Poor Mom had long fantasized that Dad was one of the exceptions, that the tall, handsome charmer did not fuck around. But gradually, she had come to her senses. All those Saturday emergency patients, late night Dental meetings, those faint aromas on his shirts, his sudden headaches when she tried to reach down between his legs in bed, these were all clues that she mentioned to me after their split. With all the attempts on her fidelity that she had so deftly turned away, she felt hurt — no, make that pissed off — that Dad had strayed, and clearly often.
Boosting herself up to sit on the hood of his car, she took out her cell phone and, as she tells it, toyed with the idea of calling his office phone. Instead, she called his cell.
"Hi, honey, how are you?"
"I'm fine, dear," he said in a whisper. "We're on the fifteenth hole and Tom is about to tee off."
"Oh, sorry. I was just wondering then whose Bentley I'm sitting on here in your parking lot."
She says that she counted to fifteen, and when there was still no response from him, she hung up and began to use her heels to redecorate the sheet metal of his hood. Alas, Bentleys are tougher than spiked heels, which collapsed in the attack after doing minimal damage. She got back into her car, pondering her revenge. That's when it occurred to her to make Dad sorry that he had bought her the Hummer. She backed up, swung around and hit the driver's side of the Bentley at a safe but highly destructive thirty miles an hour, imagining, even wishing, that Dad was seated behind the steering wheel. Then she backed away, came around and lined up on the passenger side of the Buick.
Mom sat there undecided. Was it the Hygienist's fault that she had succumbed to the advances of her wealthy employer? Should she or shouldn't she punish the Buick and its owner? Then Dad's door opened and he came out, obviously attracted by the noise of the first impact. He was waving his hands across each other, like a football official's time out for commercial signal. Suddenly Mom remembered her first thought; what kind of cunt must that slut be to have a vanity plate that says Cuddles?
The speedier and deliciously more significant impact on the Buick left the front end of the Hummer in a mess, but Mom didn't care. It was still drivable, and she knew that the settlement she would demand — and get - would more than cover the repair bills.
I was standing in the driveway, shooting hoops by myself, working on my fade-away jump shot. Basketball was my second favorite sport, exceeded only by masturbation. Then Mom rode up in the passenger seat of a tow truck. I watched the driver stare as her ass — and I didn't blame him — as she climbed out and walked over to me. She was wearing white jeans so tight that they had to have been painted on her, offset by a baggy loose blouse. When she turned around to wave goodbye to the driver, I strained to see her panty line under the jeans but could see nothing. I wondered if she wore any.
"Hey Mom, what happened to the Hummer?" I asked innocently.
"Your father didn't play golf today. He was busy fucking that girl in his office, the one with the huge tits. I decided that their cars needed punishing," she spat. "Don't bother me now. I'm going upstairs to pack."
Fucking? That was a word I well knew, from my friends. It was an insult, as in fuck you. Oh sure, I knew that it also meant sex, but either way, it was not a word heard around my home, except maybe in a movie on a pay channel. I think its fair to say that her use of the word shocked me even more than the idea that Dad was sticking it into Cuddles.
"Where are you going, Mom?" I strained to hold back the tears.
"I'm not going anyplace, Stevie. I'm packing your bastard of a father's stuff. He's the one who's going to be leaving. And don't ask me where to; I don't give a shit." Her tone made it clear that the conversation was finished.
As it happened, the Judge and the Prosecutor, both females, were sympathetic to the reasons for Mom's rampage, and they punished her guilty plea with an order for restitution — to Cuddles only - and just a year's probation.
My Dad's departure was somewhat traumatic, but I survived it. I knew that I would miss Cuddles. I had met her a few times and she played a large part in my once or twice daily masturbations. I blush to admit that she shared that duty about equally with Mom, supplemented occasionally by one of several of the girls at school. Unlike Mom's figure, suitable for modeling, top-heavy Cuddles sported a memorable rack, thirty-eight or forty or, for all I knew, even more; the related letters meant nothing to me. All I knew was that I wanted to have my face buried between those babies.
Even back at age eleven, I couldn't remember when I had first been awakened by a wet dream. I know now that it didn't happen by itself, but that I must have unconsciously helped it along. The feeling was pleasurable, as readers of both genders must surely know. So pleasurable, in fact, that I, as most if not all of my friends and acquaintances, chose to make it a habit. Of course, when I use the word habit, there's a tendency to precede it with the word filthy, as in smoking or drinking to excess, but I definitely do not mean to use that adjective to the delightful custom of jerking off, spanking my monkey, choking my chicken, pulling my pud or whatever euphemism you might prefer.
All it meant to me was that once my dick got hard, or once I started to think about some female's anatomy — it didn't matter which came first, like the chicken or the egg — I had to make myself cum, and quickly. Otherwise I would never fall asleep, or if was before I got into bed, I would be useless until my balls were emptied.
Dad had never gotten around to giving me THE LECTURE and after Mom threw him out of the house — he went to cuddle up with Cuddles and her awesome tits — Mom had neither the experience nor the inclination to tell me all about the birds and the bees. I mean, she probably guessed that's what gutters are for, aren't they? Once I figured out that I could achieve that wonderful feeling of sexual relief and release whenever I wanted to, I wanted to more and more often.
Even before that fateful departure, I had known where Dad hid his stash of 'those' magazines. They were under his workbench in the garage, in a box that was built to be locked but rarely was. Looking back, and remembering the noises of headboards hitting walls and Mom screaming Yes, Yes, Yes, I was pretty sure that Dad used them as foreplay and not for masturbation. And in Mom's rush to throw him out and in his rush to get out, to move in with Cuddles, that cornucopia of erotic inspiration was somehow forgotten. But not by me!
This was not the kind of stuff that 'I only buy for the stories', as the excuse goes; this was the really raw stuff. The women were naked, of course, but their pubic areas were not covered by filmy gowns or coyly placed hands. These models had their legs spread, pussy lips gaping while they consumed a hard dick, or the slit hidden by their legs as a side photo showed a dick buried inside her to the hilt. Except for the several pictures of a woman bent over, fingers spreading ass cheeks, exposing her anus as if inviting the reader to enter her rear passage. These magazines were made for the young teenager, though wrapped in film in the store, forcing the teen to rely upon his older brother for purchase.
But I was an only child. I never knew why. It may have been that I did some damage to Mom's plumbing when I was born, or maybe I was such a little brat that they decided not to try again. In any event, I had no big sister to spy on, to try to peek at when she got undressed in her room or when she took a shower. And I had no big brother, either, to buy me those magazines or to give me tips about girls. So I had to rely on Dad and his sloppy safekeeping for the hot picture books.
My basic problem was simply to restrain my anxious fist until I could be sure of a few minutes — it really never took too long — to relieve myself and return the magazine to its hidden cache without discovery. Once Dad was gone to get his jollies in Cuddles' bed, the return was no longer an issue; his stash now rested at the bottom of my dresser. Each magazine was a mother lode of excitement, centerfolds tearing away from their staples with repeated use; each page was the impetus, the inspiration for numerous ejaculations.
I usually alternated between the toilet, sitting there with my pants and shorts pooled on the floor, and my own bed, sitting up comfy in or more often out of my pajamas. My basic routine was toilet in the morning and bed at night. I started on the first page and stayed there, for orgasm after orgasm, until the model began to bore me and I moved on to the next. My dick announced when it was time to masturbate; it hardened whenever it chose to without any assistance from my libido. My hand was quickly around my proud four or five inches. When I say proud, I do not mean to brag; there were too many dicks in the locker room that I would have loved to call my own.
My eyes then focused on the model of choice. Not on the face, unless she was pictured with a mouthful of interracial dick, and maybe not even then. My gaze went to her spread pleasure center, as I imagined my own dick plunging inside her until my groaning release. But then the face or hips no longer belonged to the bored model; rather I superimposed Mom's features on her. Or maybe I concentrated on her nipples, always hard, standing at attention, waiting for my lips to suckle. Then I pictured Cuddles and her fantastic jugs, available for my mouth and fingers. It wasn't until much later that I learned about using tits, tightly clasped against my dick, as a substitute cunt, with my cum splashing all over chest and neck.
Looking at those magazines, staring at those pictures, was at best a one-handed job, at which my left hand became quickly adept. It was my right hand, wrapped tightly around my dick that was accomplishing what the mere images of vagina and mouth could not satisfy. That hand was doing the stroking, s-l-o-w-l-y a-t f-i-r-s-t, then at what might be called a normal rate, and finally moving on to fasterfasterfasterfasterfaster until I ultimately exploded with a quiet aaah, my sperm spurting out into the toilet or onto my hand or especially onto the bed clothing. Or sometimes right onto the face or tits or cunt of the woman in the picture. That used to make the pages kind of stick together, which was both exciting and unimportant, because Dad had left behind quite a large collection.
In the three years between when he moved out and the beginning of this story, Dad had 'visitation' reasonably often. I always expected him to ask me about those magazines, but he never did so. I guess he was embarrassed.
I said earlier that I knew Mom was no dumb blond, yet it never occurred to me that the pecker tracks I left on my sheets would be plainly visible whenever Mom prepared to do the laundry. And then one day I realized what evidence I had been leaving for her, and I thanked my lucky stars that she hadn't seen me blush when my brain finally woke up.
Mom stayed home chastely until the divorce was finalized. Then she gradually began to date. At twelve, I was too old — and too stubborn — to need a baby sitter. She trusted me, figuring I guess that all I would do when she was out would be to masturbate to one of the magazines that were no longer where Dad had stored them. But Mom, already in her thirties, had her own set of standards. She wouldn't leave me alone all night, and that meant she couldn't stay over at her date's home for the stuff that — I had no doubt - a healthy and exciting thirty-ish woman likes to do.
I was confused. Ever since I had discovered masturbation, I had guessed that grownups had sex every night, except with each other, not alone the way I was forced to do. Did she actually go to a guy's house for sex and then come home? Did they do it in the back seat of his car, like some of the guys at school bragged about? Did she bring a man into her bed when I was out at school? That last seemed least likely. But as I became more and more experienced at relieving myself, and more and more accustomed to picturing Mom's face and body instead of Cuddles', I stopped thinking about Mom's sex life. What the hell, she was damned good looking and could take care of herself, I figured.
One night, she came home from a date about ten o'clock. It had been only dinner and a drink, and that had been her target time. I was in bed; I had whacked off a few minutes earlier and was starting to fall asleep. My lights were off; the only light came from the hallway. All I saw was her back-lit silhouette as she opened my door and came across my room for a goodnight peck on the cheek. As she bent over me, I tried to peek down the top of her blouse, but the light from the hallway wasn't good enough.
The kiss completed, she put her hand on my bed to push herself up. Suddenly she stiffened, slowly turning her hand over to look at it in the dim light. She silently reached toward the foot of the bed and wiped her palm on the sheet. Equally silently, I turned several shades of red, knowing what she had just discovered. She turned to leave.
"We have to have a long talk one of these days, Stevie," she said as she left my room.
Embarassed? That's not the half of it. Mortified? That's closer. Suicidal? Well, I was almost but not quite ready for that. Struck dumb? That was it; I opened my mouth but couldn't think of a single thing to say. I turned over and tried to sleep, but my mind was a jumble of things I should have said but then realized how inadequate they would have been.
After a while, I heard some ambient noise coming into the room. It was nothing new, something that tickled my ears every once in a while. It could have been from something as simple as an electric clock or as complex as a refrigerator compressor. That night though I was so wired, thinking about Mom's discovery of the gooey wet spot on my bed, that I had to get up to find the cause. I slipped on my pj's and went looking. After a few false starts, I traced the noise to the other side of Mom's door. It sounded like her alarm clock buzzing. I was about to knock on her door when I realized that that didn't make any sense; it was bed time, not wake up time.
Then the answer hit me and I had to put a knuckle in my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. I ran back to my room, jumped into bed and jerked off like a maniac, my spurt coming in less than two minutes.
I slept late the next morning, whacked off and went downstairs to find a note on the kitchen table: 'Went to a charity luncheon, will be back around three.' Ignoring breakfast, I ran to Mom's bedroom and scanned it rapidly, trying to figure out where she had hidden it. The obvious place was her night table, but that yielded nothing. Moving on to her dresser, I opened each drawer in turn, making sure not to disturb or rearrange anything.
The top drawer was full of panties. Pink, baby blue, black, white, cotton, lacy, plain, with designs, all the possibilities. I resisted the urge to grab a pair and jerk off into them, deciding instead to press down. Feeling nothing, I fluffed up the pile and moved on to the next drawer. Again nothing. I figured out too late that I should have started at the bottom drawer. There, right on top of miscellaneous junk, I found it, pink and shiny, built like a plastic penis, with a crown in front, a battery door in back and a power switch on the side. Afraid to touch it, I bent down and sniffed at the crown, expecting Mom's perfume aroma. Instead there was a smell I can't describe, somewhat coarse, slightly fishy but not offensive.
"So that's what her cunt smells like," I whispered audibly.
I ran for Mom's hamper and dug out a pair of soiled bikinis. I jerked off for a second time that morning, the panties against my nose. The aroma was much stronger than on her vibrator. Rather than stain the sheets again, and painfully resisting the urge to cum into her panties — I knew she would kill me if she found out - I shot my cum into my hand. It puddled in my palm and I stared at it as I walked toward the bathroom to rinse it off. Then I began to think about it. First I sniffed, but noticed nothing. Then I stuck the tip of my tongue into the gooey pool, and tasted nothing. But my brain was urging me on with this new venture into the taboo, and I finally licked it all up, cleaning my hand of the sperm the way our cat washes herself. I thought that I was weird, but also that I had just moved on with my sexual experience.
Finally I ate breakfast.
That evening, Mom didn't mention the previous night's wet spot on my bed, and I certainly didn't bring up the subject. Maybe she forgot, or more likely she chickened out. Either way, it was a subject we avoided for a number of months.
But woman does not live by vibrator alone, and after a while Mom brought up the subject of sex in a totally different manner.
"Stevie, I'd like you to do me a favor. Please don't make a mess with your snacks and games in the living room. I've got a date with Bob this evening and I may be bringing him home here," she said nonchalantly.
Mila
- 11.12.2022
- 30
- 0
