Good Golly, Mrs. Mommy!

by DiscipleN

—

You know how it is, when it’s your birthday, and you’ve unwrapped your presents, and you blow out the candles on your birthday cake, and everyone wishes you ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!’, and they sing songs and swat your butt, except everyone is only your mother, and you want to fuck her more than anything? Well, I don’t care if you think that’s messed up, or that I should cut off my scrotum and sew it into a bloody hand bag. When you consider what happened next, you wouldn’t care either!

“Dear, would you please fetch my hand bag?” Mother smiled. She wiped a big glob of whipped cream from the corner of her mouth and licked her fingers. “Just think, in a couple years, we’ll be able to celebrate with something more potent than chocolate cake and ice cream.”

“Sure mom.” I reached for the diminutive imitation of a carpetbag sitting on the kitchen counter. I handed it over and watched her pry into its packed contents.

“I’m so glad you took that home economics class, your cake is delicious!” She was kind not to mention that whipped cream was an unusual frosting for chocolate cake. She continued to mine her purse. “Here we go.” Mother pulled her hand out of her feminine rucksack and held up a condom.

“Do you know what this is?” She gave me a stern look.

“Yeah mom, it’s a rubber.” What’d she think, that I was out of the loop of ninety nine percent of my high school, like fundamentalist christians who aren’t allowed to use the letter ‘x’ in case they might spell a frightful, three letter word with it?

“Oh, pooh.” Mom instantly sulked. “I know we should have had this talk sooner, but now that you know, I guess you’ll be wanting to drive the car.

“Mom, I got my license a year ago.” Something weird was going on with her. I peered closer at mom. She didn’t look drunk, and I hadn’t seen her drink anything except bottled water.

“Really, and what would your father say about that?”

To this astonishing remark, I said nothing. My dad, her one and only husband, was pushing down valkyries and tossing back beers in Valhalla. I believe I gaped.

“Don’t give me that look young man. What if you got into an accident? The family Desoto would be ruined, and your father wouldn’t be able to commute to work. Why, he’d have to take the bus like one of those poor, unfortunate Negroes.”

‘Negroes?’ I pushed my chair back and seriously considered shitting in my pants. Hell, black guys in the school’s computer club would serve my ass for tri-tip if I ever called them Negroes. And as for a Desoto, wasn’t he a latino middleweight?

I burst out laughing. “Right mom. That’s a good one.”

“Hmmph! You listen to me, young man. I’ll not have you disrespect me like that. It may be your birthday, but you’re not too old to be sent to your room.”

My wholehearted laugh caught in my throat and gagged me. I coughed and continued to cough. I could hardly breath with all that freaky in the room. Any second I expected Rod Serling to crawl out of the oven and give me the Heimleck maneuver.

“Off you go. You can think up there, about what I said, while I clean up this mess. Don’t forget to take your presents.”

Out of sheer incredulity, I stood up, grabbed my gift certificate for Wal-Mart and my three new Gamera DVDs, walked out, up the stairs, and into my room.

This had to be part of some secret plot to surprise me on my birthday. I went over the day in my head, trying to detect a pattern.

I woke up, heard mom showering, and waited in my bed until she’d left our bathroom. My mind drifted, trying to imagine my mother’s firm hips and quart sized breasts, their nipples swollen, water sweeping soap suds down her tall, slim figure. I grabbed my boner and gave it a hardy wanking, wondering if mother ever wanked her, as I imagined it, puffed out clit. It’s a great way to begin the day and pass time while the bathroom was occupied.

After my own shower, I met mom in the kitchen. She kissed me on the cheek and wished me happy birthday. I helped her make breakfast. My mom isn’t the greatest cook. She’s more likely to heat a packet of instant creamed cereal than whip up eggs florentine. We compromised and had scrambled eggs with my special hash browns.

Yeah, I got plenty of kidding taking a Home Ec. class, but a couple girls went out of their way to help me, although I admit I wasn’t so brave as to ask any of them out. I did get an A in baking. So naturally, it went unsaid that I would be baking the birthday cake. I could think of nothing abnormal about my mom this morning.

I gave my mom a list of ingredients to pick up at the store. She would meet me at noon, and I’d use the school’s kitchen after my classes. I already had permission. I didn’t particularly like our own kitchen oven, it had a nasty habit of dropping 30 degrees in the middle of a two hour chateaubriant.

When she met me at noon, she handed over an ice chest with all those yummy chocolate cake ingredients. She hadn’t spared any expense, gourmet chocolate sauce, dutch cocoa powder, bittersweet chocolate chips, organic flour, milk, eggs, butter, whipping cream, cane sugar, and real vanilla extract. Mom helped me lug the chest to the school kitchen closet. It didn’t fit my locker.

“Good luck, Hank. I’m glad I won’t be around to screw it up by accident.” Mom grinned. She was totally competent as an jet engine mechanic, but she employed kitchen tools with the same ‘big wrench’ attitude as her work tools.

There was nothing odd about mom at lunch time. The first grief in my day came from an unexpected direction. When the school bell finally rang, I dashed to the kitchen eager to craft some rich chocolate cake. I could taste the tender goodness, smell the warm, intoxicating scent in my head. It would be a long wait while it baked.

It turned out to be a very long wait. There, standing around the open closet and opened ice chest were six guys from the hockey team. Their mouths were covered with dark sauce, and they pulled on the milk carton like they were partying at a kegger.

“What the FUCK! That was suppose to be my birthday cake.” I screamed at them. I didn’t know I had it in me.

The biggest one of them looked my way and chuckled. “Happy birthday twerp. You’re welcome to whatever’s left.”

“Sorry.” Another turned to me and grinned. The other four grinned and said ‘likewise’ down the line. They all burst out laughing. Daring me to confront them more. I stood there simultaneously furious and petrified with fear.

Having finished raiding the ‘good bits’ in the ice chest, they filed past me, laughing all the way out the door. The last one cracked an egg over my head. He had the nerve to explain the obvious.

“Loser, we’re jocks. When we see an opportunity, we take it. Malcolm spied you lugging the chest in here and overheard you say chocolate to that old broad. Your mum, eh? Not a bad looker for someone who had a boy as ugly as you.”

The door slammed behind me, my body quivering from their threatening subtext. Egg white dripped down my nose. I think I had a fit then. The immediate afterward is a blur in my memory. I jumped up and hollered, cursing them. I cursed myself more. After washing my head in a sink I took inventory of what was left: three eggs, whipping cream, butter, and a sack of flour evidently used in a game of catch. Even the vanilla bottle was missing. One of them must have been able to read the word alcohol on the label. I was upset, but I wasn’t devastated. I prowled around the kitchen looking for something, anything that might help me get a grip. In the far corner of the same closet I found a cardboard box of old food stuffs.

Most schools don’t offer cooking classes anymore, but Mammoth H.S. was as slow to change as it’s mascot. The stuff I discovered must have been collected over the years, things that normally wouldn’t go bad. Baking soda, navy beans, various spices (probably flavorless), dried mushrooms, powdered sugar, and a few box mixes for stuffing, baking chicken, and flavoring sloppy joes. At the very bottom, I noticed an ancient looking logo for “Aunty Rocker’s Devil’s Food Cake”. It was an old box mix for chocolate cake.

The date stamp on it… hell, there wasn’t a date stamp on it. The trademark date for the logo said 1947. I didn’t care. Two hours later, I returned home, ready to celebrate my birthday. The only thing that bugged me was, mother didn’t seem to notice the difference between one of my modern oven wonders and this trite effigy to a woman’s place in the home. She had two helpings. I carved a narrow slice but couldn’t swallow more than a few bites of it’s sawdust like consistency. I begged baker’s snacking as an excuse for being full. I did notice mom’s extra helpings of whipped cream and ice cream with each slice. Perhaps she was just being polite.

That’s when she pulled out the condom. Shit, I exclaimed to myself as I entered my room. I poisoned my own mother with fossilized cake mix! All those chemical stabilizers and texturizers and artificial flavors and colors must have combined into a hella-psychoactive drug! I’d better call the doctor!

Right, and tell her what? Mommy’s acting like a sourpuss? She’s delirious, under the influence of bad cake? I’d hate the see the doctor’s bill for that emergency phone call. All I could do was sit on my bed and cross my fingers, hoping her immune system would fight off the chemicals.

A couple hours later, boredom and a genuine worry about my mother forced me out of my room. I hadn’t heard a peep from mom since she’d ordered me to leave. I found her in the living room, sitting straight up on the couch, staring at the curtains like a prairie dog.

When she heard me sit down beside her, she blinked. “I’m afraid your father must be delayed at work.” She patted my knee and tried to look consoling.

“Mom, dad died three years ago.” I chose to remind her. I thought maybe I could snap her out of it, but my own memory of his loss welled up in my heart.

She simply stared blankly, neither at me nor the window curtain. It was like I’d turned off a robot. I sat with her for what seemed like an hour, but she didn’t move.

Eventually, I started to get horny. This is not as absurd as it sounds. If I didn’t get horny at least three times a day, I’d feel like my hormonal balance had begun it’s slow decline into middle-age.

I found myself staring at my mother’s tits. She still hadn’t moved. I fingered the growing tent in my pants, trying to push it flat behind the zipper. When she didn’t take notice, I took a good look. I leaned in closer, trying to see through her top. Was that a hint of a dark circle behind her bra? My fingering became a light tapping. The cock in my pants had begun it’s death march. I knew I’d have to blow a wad soon, or I’d be in blue ball hell. Mother didn’t move a muscle.

I touched her arm, but she didn’t react. Her skin felt terribly warm, as if she were running a fever. I placed the back of my hand to her forehead. It was hot. I felt a light sweat on her brow. I noticed her face glistening like a perfect, porcelain doll. I couldn’t resist. I reached my arm around behind her and brushed the far side of her covered breast. My cock did a dance in my pants, but it didn’t shoot. I wasn’t that close. I felt her move then. She looked up first and then at my invading hand. Then her head swiveled back and her eyes met mine.

“Oh honey, I have a terrible headache. Maybe we can do this another time.” That said, she smiled, stood up, and walked away, up the stairs to her bedroom. I was the one who didn’t move then. My mind was flooded with incredible ideas, and my cock thrilled at every one. When I heard her door close, I opened my pants and released the throbbing beast that commanded me. After several hardy jerks on my prick, I shot fourteen tablespoons of sperm into the carpet.

The next morning, I was able to get into the shower first. When I went down to the kitchen, mother wasn’t anywhere below. Hell, she’s going to be late for work. I had almost forgotten the night before. I raced upstairs to her bedroom and pounded on the door!

“Hhuhnn?” I heard a weak reply. I turned the knob and opened the door just a crack. Mother was lying in bed, arms and legs askew, her partially opened skirt and shirt clung half on to her body. My dick instantly responded. I stepped inside. “Mom? Are you okay?”

“Oooohhhhh, I have the worst headache!” She tried to rise, but failed. Her half covered underwear caught my attention for more than a few seconds.

“I’ll get you some ibuprofen.” I rushed back to the bathroom and pulled the bottle from a shelf. I filled a rinsing glass and brought them both to her. I had to feed the tablets into her mouth and hold the glass up to her lips. I sneaked another peek at her chest. There really were dark circles visible through her bra.

“My arms feel like dead weights, and my stomach is fluttering. How much did I drink last night?”

“Are you kidding!” I gulped and nearly told her she hadn’t drank a drop.

“What happened? I must have been blitzed. Oh Hank, I hope I didn’t ruin your birthday.”

“You don’t remember?”

“The last thing I remember was you blowing out your candles.”

“I-I had a g-great time, mom. You just got a little carried away.” I improvised. Some of those ideas from last night were filtering back into my head. All of them had to do with what she’d said. ‘Maybe we can do this another time.’

Already, I was telling myself that my mother wasn’t all that worse for the cake she’d eaten. She looked better and better the more I looked at her.

“Oh, I’m going to be late for work. You’d better scram to school. I’ll be fine. Just grab something quick for lunch, and I’ll see you tonight. Have a great day, my full-grown boy.” She smiled then, quite unaware that I was growing great lengths in the presence of her disarrayed clothing. I could even see a corner of her white cotton panties. Only with great regret did I leave mom and rush off to school. Before I left, I checked the refrigerator to make sure the rest of the chocolate cake had been saved. It had.

I returned home, I swear, before the school bell finished ringing. At first I thought I’d entered the wrong house. A coat rack I’d never seen before greeted me at the door. There were pink throw pillows on the couch, and several orderly rows of collector dinner plates had been attached to the far wall. The place was spotless. We never lived in squalor, but the best you could call mom’s and my lifestyle would be ‘casual’. The furniture was rearranged, and there were plastic liners on the recliner and couch. Whoa, what kind of maid service had mom hired this month?

I entered in a bewildered haze, not paying attention to subtle sounds and smells emanating from the kitchen. My home had shifted into the alternate dimension of some black and white sitcom! I hung my backpack on the coat rack and took off my wind-breaker. I let it fall to the floor. The front door remained open behind me.

“Honey, are you home?” Mother sang tunefully from the kitchen. Then the smell hit me.

“Mom, are you cooking? What is that foul…”

“It’s fish. Friday is fried fish, remember?”

She must have been trying to make deep fried sushi from rusted cans of tuna cat food. Mother appeared, smiling, at the doorway. A frilly dress with pleats and layers covered her from shoulders to ankles. It’s pastel green clashed with the living room’s deep purple, oriental rug. She stepped over to me quickly and planted a solid peck on my cheek.

“It’s been a long day without the man around the house. But I managed to fill the time. How was your day, hon?”

“Mom, did you eat any of my birthday cake today?”

Mom gave me a surprised look. “Oh, I guess you caught me, ha ha. I doubt Hank likes the cake he made. What could compare to a mother’s home cooking? I wondered why he didn’t cut a slice before he ran out this morning. I figured it was fair game after that.”

Hank? Third person? What was I, tuna fish? The smell was oppressing my ability to think clearly.

“Uh, that’s okay, mom. What’s for dinner?”

“You must be famished after a hard day at the office, poor thing. I’ll get your slippers while you sit and relax. How about an extra dry martini?” My mother kept smiling cheerfully as she darted around the room, patting the recliner, checking the closet for slippers that weren’t there.

“Here they are.” She pulled out a brand new pair and fetched them over like a dog happy to greet its master. “I made you your favorite, dear, tuna casserole with American cheese.”

Oh shit, she thought I was her husband! (Not my father, but some false icon of a husband.) Oh fuck. Crap! What am I going to… Oh… PING!!! Oh?

Now my brain had something to help fight the nasty odor in the house. That something was my erect cock! The epiphany which hit me then convinced me that my secret lust’s time had come. As the husband of a properly obedient wife, I could write my own scenarios and mother would be my inspired actress.

“Um, don’t bother with the booze, er, honey. I’ll just sit and think, while you finish in the kitchen.” I took my place in our plush recliner. The plastic immediately molded to my back and clung to every inch of exposed skin. Right away, it made me itch.

Mother knelt down before me and began untying the laces on my sneakers. I could see her cleavage, her full lips, her cheerful eyes. I lost it then. My cock could take only so much. I unzipped my pants and fished out it’s full length through my jockey shorts.

Mother looked up and froze. What was this?

If I had guessed right, sex wasn’t even a thought in her head. It never existed before the sixties, at least in her mind. How could she object to something that was morally neutral? If holding up a condom was her entire lecture about human sexuality, then she was begging for some serious study. Words of immense wisdom returned to me from the previous day, ‘When you see an opportunity, take it.’

I took.

I took my mom’s surprised head with its open mouth and planted it over my stiff fuck tool!

“Don’t mind me, honey. This will be far more relaxing than a martini!” I cried.

I began using her head to masturbate my pulsing cock. It was show time! I was so horny and gleeful at my audacity, I didn’t consider the thousand unpleasant and even dangerous ways my mother could react.

For the first ten or so poundings of her face to my prick, she remained frozen. She began to melt as I continued to fuck my cock into her jaws. Her mouth softened and her tongue began to lick the under-shaft. The tip of it tickled my balls at full insertion.

“That’s right mommy, get a good taste of your boy’s cock. He’s had a tough day at school.” I stopped acting like her imaginary husband on purpose. I wanted to fuck my mom as her son, no matter how psychedelically her brain had been fried. My hips pushed more cock into mother’s mouth.

I felt her head move on it’s own volition. Her plump lips seared across my shaft quickening its pulse, my pulse. My hand relaxed and there we were fully engaged in hard pumping and sucking, time ticking down swifter and swifter. My balls lurched and churned. Muscles contracted and sperm leapt.

“Oh, mom, don’t let go. Swallow it, every shot, thaaaa, uuunnnggghhhh! Aaaaahhhhhggg!!” Vulcanized cum blasted from my dick and seared her throat. Jet after jet scored into her mouth. Mother’s mouth sucked and gulped, my full cock poured its cumload down to her belly, jerking over and over until muscles failed and balls ran dry. I held her head and gasped for breath. I could hear air roar out of her nostrils. She could barely breathe.

Pulling my softening cock from her mouth, I told her, “You’re a peach, honey.” It was the first corny line I could remember from ‘My Three Beavers’ or whatever that show was called.

Her smile wasn’t the same, but I’d give it an A for effort. She blinked and looked a bit confused, but whatever that cake did to my mom, it sure was effective. Sunshine peered around her shadow of doubt and lit my lower body. She actually kissed the side of my cockhead as if it had a cheek.

“Dinner will be ready in five minutes.” She reassured me.

In five minutes, my cock would be ready. I eventually wandered into the kitchen and took my place at the head of the table. The food was horrendous! Imagine tuna fish mixed with mayonnaise stirred into half cooked pasta and dried peas. Now add a layer of artificial yellow pavement across the top and you end up with broken utensils and no appetite. The green beans on the side were brown and mushy. The potato could have been used as a wheel block, and the milk, even the frigging milk tasted it like it had been pissed in.

“What did you do with the milk, mom?” I asked as I ran to the sink to flush the rest down the sink, rinse the glass, and fill it. Sink water tasted better than that milk.

“Oh honey, is it bad? I guess I must have left it in the sun while I was preparing supper.

“When did you prepare supper.”

“Right after lunch. Are you ready for dessert?”

My cake! I rushed to the refrigerator, but the cake wasn’t there. Suddenly through the thin smoke in the kitchen, I noticed a peculiar, sweet, burning odor mixed with the rest of my mother’s attempt at making phosgene gas. The oven!

A gout of smoke poured out as I foolishly grabbed the hot sheet supporting what was left of my cake. “AAAHHH!” I screamed when the sheet seared my fingers.

“Oh honey, let me get some butter for that.” Mother rose delicately and searched the refrigerator. “I thought the cake would be more delicious warm.”

Unfaltering, I snagged a towel and finally rescued the cake. It was covered in charred whipped cream. I despaired to the point of tears as I set the smoking half circle of cake on the counter.

Mother reached me and began to cool my blistered fingers with the butter.

Paying her no mind, I took a knife and scraped off the charcoal coating. To my immense relief, the cake beneath was fine. “Um, mom?”

“Yes dear?” Her smile beamed once again.

“Let’s save the cake for tomorrow.” I hugged her then. My lips found hers and kissed them fully. I even tried to stick my tongue into her mouth. My cock was ready for round two.

Mother pulled away from me, and she slapped me playfully on the shoulder. “Really, honey you ought to behave. I have such a headache. Maybe we can do this another time.”

I wish I had raped her then. We were down to half a cake.

—— split ——

The next morning, I couldn’t tell if mom was worse off for the drug. She had looked so devastated the day before.

“Mom are you all right?”

“Oh, Hank, did you get the number of that truck?” She was holding her head and teetering in the bed. Her only clothing were panties and a bra. The society dress lay on the floor next to the bed.

“Let me help you in the shower.” I suggested.

She swatted my hands away. “I’m not decent sport, better clear out. How could I have gotten so wasted a second day in a row. Did I even go into work yesterday?”

I answered her from the doorway. ” I think you slept all day. Maybe you’ve caught some weird bug, mom. Aren’t you glad it’s Saturday?”

“Sick on a weekend? Crud. Better stay clear, Hank. I wouldn’t want you to catch this thing. There’s a rolls-royce turbofan on afterburner incinerating the inside of my skull.

Closing the door to a discreet, hairline crack, I called to her. “How’s your appetite?”

“My mouth feels like it sucked co…, er pickles, all night long. I don’t want anything. Make yourself something.” Then softer, “Maybe a shower is the right thing.”

I heard her drag herself off the bed. I hightailed it into the kitchen.

When the shower turned off, I gave mom ten minutes to dry herself and dress. I returned to her door and knocked.

“Feel better?”

“A little bit.”

I opened the door and peered in.

“Hey! Don’t come in!”

There was my mom. She’d just put on her panties and was fumbling with her bra. Her soft tits hung off her chest like two small cantaloupes. No wonder I was in lust with my mother. I associated skinny tits with anorexics and fat tits with either obesity or silicone. Mom’s were perfect for me, her nipples were also sized in dark moderation. That was all I could glean before pulling back behind the door.

My cock raged to touch them. “Hey mom, maybe a quick bite before you begin your day.” Without looking inside again, I set down on the carpet, the saucer I had been carrying and slid it through the opening. I placed a fresh glass of milk, from a new carton, just inside the door.

“Cake?” Mom wondered aloud. “For breakfast?”

“Yeah, mom, I even made fresh whipped cream. The original cream didn’t keep very well.” I had more cream waiting for her, inside my pants.

“You didn’t have to trouble yourself. My stomach is still kinda queazy.”

Drat! She wasn’t going to fall for it.

“Oh, maybe just a bite. A little sugar might stimulate my appetite. I tell you every time you’re sick that a little food keeps your metabolism strong. It’s time to take my own advice.”

“YES!” I yelled silently. I heard the fork rattle on the dish. She was still shaky from her ‘hangover’.

For the first time, I would be able to measure how long the cake took to invoke it’s effect. I doubted I could wait very long without grabbing my dick and shooting a few ropes of cum through my mother’s door, but I steeled myself for the effort.

It took exactly fifteen minutes.

“Hank, you’d better not be late for school again, or I’ll have to have a talk with your teacher! Don’t forget to bring your report straight to me. I’ll have a star waiting for every ‘A’.”

It was all I needed to hear. She was back to living a five day week. I rushed inside the bedroom. She stood radiant in her blue, pink flower bespeckled, house dress. Even her hair had magically transformed itself into a piled bouffant. I tackled her in the middle of her room and drove her back down upon the bed.

“What in mercy’s name?” She cried out.

I fumbled for my cock, pushing my pants down my legs. I straightened up and gave her a good look at my rampant organ.

Just like the previous night, she froze, this time spread eagle across her bed, legs dangling over the side. I lifted her dress above her thighs and revealed her white panties. I pulled them down off of her legs and leaped on top of her.

“My goodness, what is all this?” She sputtered, staring wildly at the ceiling.

My cockhead found her pussy, but it didn’t slip in. She was dry. Reaching between us, I aimed my cock where I thought cunt was, and I thrust myself inside her.

“Ooowww! Hank, are you sure you’re not going to be late for school!”

“Mom, you sure may be late for your period!” I answered with a roar and fucked hard cock into unwilling pussy. It was hard on me too. Her dry cunt scoured my penis, but I didn’t care. I was finally fucking my mother.

“Oohh, it’s so good, mother! I can hardly wait to fill your insides with my backed-up load of sperm!”

“That’s okay, honey. I’ll clean up the mess in the kitchen. You just run along.”

I was running, running my engorged prick inside and out of the hole where I was born. My lust drove me like a sprinter. I could feel her cunt passage begin to lubricate. Her warm folds massaged my cock like no mouth ever could. Our frictioning tissues were soon bathed in mommy cunt juices and son prick pre-cum.

“This is great mom! I’m fucking you so great!” I couldn’t believe it. I was raping my own mother, and she didn’t have a clue about what I was doing to her. Whatever that cake had, it was better than any date rape drug I’d ever heard of. My cock plunged with glee. My body was already sweating and twitching. My nerves ramped up their pleasure force faster than ever.

“Yes, you go right ahead and collect your things. Do you need mommy to drive you to school?” I felt her pushing back with her hips. Cunt sucked cock deeper with every thrust. “Oh dear, what’s that?” My mother suddenly cried out. Her son knew before she did.

My whole body detected the first spasms of her own natural reaction. She was getting ready to blow too. If only I could make it last, but my long repressed lusts could be delayed no further.

“I really need to vacuum around here!” Mother yelled ecstatically.

My cock was bursting to plant seed into its place of origin. I could feel the wave of my orgasm rush up from my prick and down from my brain, filling my arms and legs and exploding out from my center.

“I’m cumming, mom, I’m UUUNNNNGGGGHHHH!!! COMMMING!!!!” My cum rushed out from my balls and blasted the walls of her cunt, forcing jism through the iris of her cervix.

“Huh-HUH, UUUHHHGGG, ‘urry up, son!!!” She screamed then. I could feel her cunt contracting and sucking each jolt of incestuous cream into her womb. “We don’t want to be LAAAAHHHH-ate!” Her arms wrapped around me and hugged me hard against her tits.

Even as I continued to cum, I was tearing at the top of her dress, revealing her bra and working to release her tits. I sucked on them like a mad motherfucker.

“Ohhh, ooohh,” Mother began to cool down. “Honestly, Hank, this is not the time to be fooling around! My hair, it must look a-fright. What ever am I going to do with you?”

“I think you should suck on my dick.” I stopped engorging my face on her tits and crawled up over her ruined house dress. When my knees reached her shoulders, I fed wet meat into her bewildered afirmament. She sucked.

We spent entire day worshiping my cock. I fucked, sucked, blew, screwed, and spewed into my gorgeous mother until she was black and blue. I shot load after load of salty, hot cream into her baby maker until my balls went numb from the effort and my cock couldn’t hold more than an inch upright.

The next morning was the same, except she woke up with an even worse headache and had bruises all over her body. I told her she needed to see a doctor. I lied to her about an appointment, but before we left I offered her another slice of cake. We never made it out the door. In fact I even convinced her I was the sick one, and she wrote an excuse to be absent from school for a whole week.

The day after the first rape of my mother, I eased back my ardor and was more careful about leaving telltale marks. I did leave my day’s production of incestuous sperm in her belly.

We repeated our little play every day for the rest of the week. I didn’t try to cheat myself. I cut the same size of cake slice each time. It was going to run out eventually, and I didn’t want her to be only half drugged. She had every right to haul my ass off to jail and dare my cellmates to plant their seed inside me. Oh no!

When the last slice was consumed and consummated, I went back to a strict diet of whacking off but with better memories to cum over. It took a couple weeks before I could bear to take the cake platter out of the fridge. (I told you our house wasn’t the tidiest.)

Mother was writing something in her worker’s maintenance journal at the kitchen table. I couldn’t stop myself. I set the platter on the counter and walked up behind her. I reached around her waist to cup her tits, wanting to massage them one last time.

Mother spun around, and she slapped my face, hard! “Hank! We may live in a fairly free thinking, modern world, but everything has it’s limits.” She scolded me sternly. That’s when I knew it was over. I took the empty cake plate to the sink. Mother shook her head. She probably felt bad about having to react so harshly.

“I’m sorry to say it, Hank, but I’m glad that cake is finally gone. I don’t think it was very good for me.” She patting the slight but steadily growing bulge in her midsection. “I thought I’d recovered from that terrible illness, but recently I’ve been waking up sick to my stomach. It’s almost as if…”

“No, I’m sorry, mom.” I interrupted her as I scraped crumbs into a sealable sandwich bag. “I can make a better cake than this one.” I sneaked the bag into my pocket. Tonight I’d hide them far in the back of the freezer. “Who knows mom? When I begin college next year, maybe I’ll learn all sorts of secrets in organic chemistry.”

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