Unspoken Pleasure (erotica)

Fuck me, but Mom was horny. She wasn’t just wet. She wanted to fuck!

“Mom,” I said, still kneeling, “can you turn around for me?”

Mom pushed herself to a standing position and turned around. She looked down at me, but I didn’t look up at her. I had my phone focused on the triangle of her labia, recording the blonde hairs sticking above her waistline and panning the camera over the exposed sides of her mound. I panned lower, loving how the outer edges of her lips lay outside of the triangle of her little panties.

I stood, keeping the camera on my mother’s body, recording her stomach and belly button and her breasts. I captured each one, zooming in on her nipples, and then I moved up to her face, where she was nibbling on the last of her strawberry, and a little bit of juice escaped her lips as she bit into it.

My cock hurt so fucking much because of this… this… this craziness.

“Mom,” I said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Mark,” Mom said, dropping her hand from her mouth, the strawberry’s top slipping from her fingers and crashing to the wooden floor below.

“I need to see Jenna.” I lowered my camera. “This is too much. I mean, look!” I tilted my phone’s viewer at my cock. “Your teasing–”

“Don’t say that,” Mom said. “You can’t see Jenna. You can’t. You have to do something else. You have to find a way to stay away from her. You have to–”

“Can I touch you?” I asked, my question slicing through her words and leaving her wide-eyed. “I’m not leaving Jenna for another woman. I’m not. But if you’re going to insist on this, whatever this is, I need to touch you.”

“Mark,” Mom said, sighing.

“I need to.” I licked my lips. “And not like when I put the oil on you. I need to touch you.” I shut my eyes, my face clenching. I wasn’t acting. “Jenna won’t tease me like you do. She wants to give me the real thing. I need more from you, Mom.”

I opened my eyes, but I didn’t look at my mother. I stared down and to the left, the expression on my face a tangible mixture of shame, frustration, desire, and other emotions that left me feeling like a swelling ball of rage that would continue to grow until it burst.

Mom stared at me in silence.

A minute slipped into the past.

I almost looked up at her.

Another minute disappeared from my life.

“I’m going to Jenna,” I said, turning around and walking toward the hallway cutting straight to the foyer. “This isn’t working. Not the way you wanted it to work. I’m sorry.”

“Mark,” Mom said, her voice firm but not cold. There was a kind of resignation in her tone that warmed my blood. “Wait for me in the living room. Wait for me, no matter how long I take.”

Not turning around, I nodded, and I walked to the living room and sat on the couch facing the TV, placing my phone on the armrest. Time went by, one minute, then two–my dick still hard. By the third minute, I had started tapping my right foot, my balls now aching. By the fourth minute, my left foot had joined my right, my knees rising and falling in unison. I breathed in deeply, taking in as much air as possible to calm myself, but it wasn’t working. I looked toward the kitchen often for the next several minutes, and by the eighth minute, I stood and almost walked back to the kitchen, but Mom had said to wait, no matter how long she took.

Fuck.

God had not given horny eighteen-year-olds the patience to wait for sex. It was no wonder that so many of us got into trouble. I was ready to stand up again by the time half an hour had passed, but then I heard the soft tap of Mom’s feet on the hallway’s wooden floor.This is from NôvelDrama.Org.

I turned to the right, looking at my mother, who was coming out of the kitchen with a full glass of wine. I guessed it was not her first since I had left the kitchen, and maybe not her second. There was a soft glaze filming her eyes.

Mom stepped from the wooden foyer and down into the carpeted living room, walking around the far end of the couch. She sipped her wine and then walked forward, stopping in front of me. There was plenty of room between the couch and the coffee table–Mom didn’t believe in clutter–and she stared down at me with an unreadable expression on her face.

“Mom?” I asked.

Mom licked her lips before saying, “If I let you touch my legs, you will not see Jenna.”

“For today,” I said. “I won’t see Jenna for today.”

Mom narrowed her brows.

“I promise.” I tilted my head to the left and then rolled it to the right before straightening it. “Tomorrow too.”

Mom inhaled deeply, then exhaled with a heavy sound. Was she trying to guilt me into changing my mind? It wasn’t going to work. My mom–any mom–standing in front of their son while wearing a pair of tiny panties and a cropped tank top that hugged her tits like a second skin was not about to convince their sex-starved child that touching her wasn’t in his best interest.

“Okay,” Mom said. “Get off the couch.”

I stood, looming over my mother. She brought her wine up to her lips and drank. Her green eyes found mine, and they didn’t break contact. The stem of the wine glass tilted upward, the round base pointing at me as the wine disappeared into my mother’s mouth. Every last drop of the wine ran down her throat before she turned to her left and moved away from me. Mom walked one step and then glided into the couch with a cat-like crawl, her right knee going up first, then her right hand. She braced herself as she set her wine glass down, the stretch of her arm and spine lifting her ass into the air. With her legs parted, that fabric capturing her pussy folds seemed to stretch, and she then brought her left hand and leg onto the couch and lay down on her stomach with her legs closed.

“Go ahead,” Mom said. “Touch me.”

“Anywhere,” I said.

“No,” Mom snapped. “Not anywhere.”

“I mean anywhere that you aren’t wearing clothes.”

“My legs,” Mom said. “My back and my sides. That’s where you can touch me.” Mom made a clicking sound with her tongue. “I’m still your mother.” She gathered her hair and pulled it over her left shoulder. “Remember that.”

“I know,” I said. “No other woman could convince me not to see Jenna.”

Mom’s head turned as if she were about to look over her shoulder at me, but then she faced forward. She grabbed a couch pillow and rested her cheek on its softness. Her eyes faced the backrest, and then they closed. I took that as a sign to get in my feels.

There was no lotion this time, only skin-to-skin contact. I dropped to my knees, my hard-on hovering above the cushions and pointing at Mom’s hip. I placed my left hand on the small of her back, the warmth of her skin flowing into my hand, and I felt the rise of goosebumps across her flesh. I placed my right hand on her left leg, the outside leg, above her ankle, and I stroked upward toward the back of my mother’s knee.