<< my stories     << Chapter 1

Unconscious Needs, Insensibly Met

Chapter 2

The next morning Suzanne worked from home and called her son out sick from school. (“I think he ate a bad batch of cookies last night” she’d told them, winking at Decker conspiratorially.)

And they talked! Talked and talked. Well, mostly Decker did. Suzanne hung on his every word  and did chores. She puttered around the house, making breakfast, starting laundry, writing emails, all while her chattering son followed from room to room, spilling his long backed up guts.

Decker was in heaven. He’d always felt a twinge of jealousy towards those boys with doting mothers. Perched on the bleachers at every soccer game, waiting for their sons afterwards with a mouth full of encouragement and a cooler full of orange slices. Hovering Mothers, he’d heard, were a bad thing. According to who? For a long neglected child like him, this was the life.

And it wasn’t that Mom was doting on him, exactly. She mostly went about her day, doing her normal, boring household chores. It was just that she really seemed to care about all his stories, and she took everything he told her to heart. She was something utterly alien to him in all his years as her son: an avid listener.

When Mom was typing out a long email from her favorite work spot --a yoga cushion on the floor-- and he lost the thread during one of his stories of grade school intrigue, her brow would furrow, and she'd ask just the right question to get him back on track. For Old Mom, talking to her while she was at her “Work Zafu” would have been a recipe for certain death.

Sitting up on the kitchen counter while she unloaded the dishwasher, Decker had worked up the courage to finally tell The Tale of Lunch Room Heartbreak. Suzanne reacted perfectly: oohing and tsking at all the right times. Occasionally, during the really tough bits, she would stop putting bowls in the cupboard and look directly into his eyes.

“Oh sweetheart, that sounds really terrible”, she had added, with a sympathetic squeeze on his pajama-ed knee.

By late afternoon Decker’s cheeks were sore from all the smiling, laughing and inside joke-ry. He and his mother sat across from each other at their small kitchen table, polishing off a pair of chicken salad sandwiches. Decker had returned to a well worn topic of the day: The prettiest girls in class. Suzanne was a good sport, but couldn’t resist repeatedly rolling her eyes in faux-disapproval at such a crass subject.

“And Liz Williams and Kathrine Pierce and-”. Fist in cheek, Suzanne watched her son rattle off an endless list of Bainbridge Episcopal Middle School 6th grade starlets she’d never heard of.

“Well, what about your friend you brought home to study with last year? Katie Kroo-something? She’s ‘Netflix and Chill-able’, right?” Suzanne emphasized the designation with air quotes, setting Decker off on a giggle fit. Hearing Katie Kreuger (such a spaz!) and allusions to romance in the same sentence had him beside himself. He burst out laughing mid-disavowal. Suzanne soaked up her son’s mirth, the side of her mouth curled in cheery anticipation.

“Oh, no-- Katie Kroo’s a bit of a … dog, is she?” Suzanne felt a little bad for taking potshots at a 12 year old girl, but it was too late, she’d caught the contact giggles.

“Woof, Mom. Woof.” Decker choked out, between their shared guffaws.

After a while, they settled into a long, contented silence, occasionally exchanging smiling looks.

When the pivotal moment came, Decker was spaced out, happily reviewing the events of the day in his mind. Then the clouds parted and everything changed: Mom's hair caught a direct shaft of fading sunlight from their kitchen’s garden window. It illuminated her face in the dim, dreamy red of early sunset. Stunned by the sudden beauty of the scene, Decker marvelled at her heart shaped face, framed in a chaotic, backlit halo. Sensing his gaze, Suzanne fidgeted in her seat and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

“What, honey? Bit of chicken on my face?” she joked. Suzanne broke off a piece of sandwich and daintily fed herself.

“No, no--nothing.” Decker watched her chew, suddenly noticing her lips (full, pink). He looked up and got lost in her eyes (bright, playful).

“Well, I’m stumped, sweetheart. It sounds like you’ve got some real beauties in your class. Who’s the fairest of them all?” She crooked a finger and toyed with her bottom lip, smiling coyly.

Decker regarded his mother, rapt. He scrutinized her familiar, oval face. Her high cheekbones and the smile lines that framed her wide mouth. Her pert nose. Her Crow’s feet. Her guileless, vibrant eyes. His stomach abruptly lurched, overtaken by a kaleidoscope of butterflies. He studied the remains of his sandwich, somehow nervous. Embarrassed.

It’s just dumb old mom eating a sandwich in her robe and pajamas, he thought. Nothing worth thinking twice about. But think (and look) twice, he did. In his newly alert state, it was hard not to notice Mom's unbelted robe, parted widely. Wide enough to show her inner collarbone and the scooped neckline of her thin camisole top. By the low hang of those familiar mounds hidden under his mother's thick bedwear, he could tell she hadn’t put on a bra this morning. Decker licked his (quite dry) lips.

“Well, if the cat's got your tongue then I guess I'll take the floor.” Wearing a shy, tight-lipped smile, Mom scooted her chair up and leaned in, folding her arms on the table. She hunched forward, as if preparing to tell a secret. Decker shifted awkwardly in his chair. Mom's pose had mashed her pillowy chest against her arms, and pinned her robe in an open position.

“With all this talk of girls-” she paused and awkwardly tapped her forearm. After a deep breath, she continued.

“There are probably a few things we should discuss. May I?” she said softly. Preoccupied as he was by his view, Decker still noted the tension that had crept into her voice. Mom sat close enough that he caught a whiff of her shampoo. Reflexively, he slouched back in his chair. What now? Am I in trouble for what happened yesterday?

His mother’s big toe lightly tapped his foot under the table, startling him out of his worry.

“Now, I know we’ve been laughing and joking the whole day, but we should be serious for a moment.” Mom’s toe traced briefly along the top of his bare foot, then made its way around to his outer ankle. Decker stared at the plain tan wood finish of their kitchen table, as if following her foot’s journey with x-ray vision.

“Honey, the day will come when you’ll be ready to... date.” Suzanne strained out the last word like it weighed 400 lbs. Decker hardly heard. Instead, he was fixated on the top of his mother’s foot, which nimbly traced higher along the outer leg of his pajamas. Pleasant, wild shivers ran up his spine as she gently nuzzled her instep along the outside of his calf. Confused, he searched his mother’s troubled face for any clue as to why she’d initiated this game of footsie.  

“I know, it's surprising. Everyone makes these lists when they’re young, but eventually things... How should I put it?..” she trailed off, leaving Decker to contemplate her instep’s lazy kneading of his outer calf. Her under-the-table caresses had been reassuring at first, but had quickly taken on an arousing quality. Decker felt a familiar stirring in his pants. Above board, Mom chewed her lower lip, deep in thought. After a moment, her foot stopped its idle stroking against the outside of his leg and moved away--leaving Decker strangely deflated. He tentatively swung his right leg out, missing the contact.

“Ah yes! ‘escalate’. Things eventually ‘escalate’.” Mom raised her hands in air quotes again, and Decker felt that same persistent forefoot reappear, this time on his other leg at the inner knee. He relaxed the leg, and Mom’s foot gently nudged his left knee over, parting his legs widely and exposing the (now quite tight) crotch of his pajama bottoms.

“I won’t go into details--I don’t think you’re interested in the birds and bees talk quite yet?” she lightly rested the front sole of her foot on his left thigh. Without thinking, Decker edged forward in his chair, willing the foot further up his leg. Mom’s foot obliged--it straightened out and slid, ball and arch, up the ramp of his thigh.

“You’re still my sweet little boy, I hope?” She tilted her face with a questioning smile, seeking her son’s lowered eyes. Simultaneously, the knuckles of her toes made contact and pushed directly into his crotch. Decker’s breath caught in his throat.

“Sweetheart, I know this is pretty dull and awkward.” Mom offered an apologetic look. “So we’ll hold off on discussing the facts of life, ok?” Suzanne reached across the table and cupped her son’s cheek. Decker barely registered his mother’s hand on his face. His mind had emptied, overwhelmed by the erotic pleasure radiating from his pajama bottoms. The tips of Mom’s curled toes had begun to slide back and forth along his right leg, caressing his erection through the taut fabric.

“Ok, honey?”

He desperately did not want these sensations to end, and he hadn’t heard most of what she’d been saying, but he lifted his head and valiantly attempted to show he was listening.

“Wou-would you like a foot massage?” he offered softly. It was all he could think of--Mom’s feet were foremost in his mind at the moment.

“Oh. Umm-” Suzanne tilted her head and briefly considered. Her eyes narrowed, and her worried smile wavered. A million miles away--under the table--his mother’s insolent foot continued bumping and working against the base of Decker's cock. Occasionally her toes would make a fist, kneading into his hardness. Decker began flexing his thighs and butt into the chair, grinding into his mother’s wonderful toes.

“No thanks, sweetheart. It's pretty cold in here. I think I'll keep my feet in my slippers for now. But thank you for being so considerate.” she replied, still trying to read his face.

Through a fog, Decker tilted his head down and considered his lap. Mom’s right foot was absolutely not in it's slipper. He could see that the extremity in question was, in fact, between his legs busily massaging his genitals. Her foot’s repertoire had expanded. It now alternated between curling and uncurling its toes, teasing the underside of his penis and tickling his testicles from above (*scrunch*) , tracing delicately along the side of his trapped shaft (*stroke*), or gently wiggling Mom’s toes against his perineum, massaging his testicles from below. (*wiggle*)

“But (scrunch) honey? What do you think about what (wiggle) I said? Does that make sense? (stroke)” she asked softly.

No, it didn’t make sense, Decker thought. How could Mom not know what she’s doing with her foot? Is she messing with me? Is that poem doing this? Why is she being so freaky again? Everything was so confusing, and heavenly. His mind might have been stuck in “Does Not Compute”, but his head was swimming in the clouds.

"Uhh.. I-i.. th-think.." Decker was near the bursting point. He noticed the subtle rocking in Mom’s shoulders and upper body. He knew why: below board, her footjob had intensified. The ball of her foot was steadily rubbing him off, back and forth along the side of his shaft-- Decker’s breathing got more ragged. His face reddened.

“What’s gotten into you honey? I knew I shouldn’t have brought this up.” she sighed, looking down at her folded arms, concerned.

In the back of his mind, panic warred with libido. If the ball of mom’s foot kept working its magic, he was going to come in his pants. Again. Would her feet feel the dampness in his PJs? What if she snapped out of it when he came? Horrified, he imagined having to explain cummy toes to his mother. His flight reflex kicked in, cutting through his sexual haze.

Decker regretfully brought his arms to the table edge and pushed back, ejecting himself from Suzanne’s footjob like a losing pilot fleeing a dogfight. He stood on weak knees, and quickly turned away. His rock hard pole stood at full mast, making a caricature of a tent in his pants.

He quickly stepped away from the table, muttering about having to use the bathroom.

“Hold on a second, mister. You know not to just leave your plate.” Mom commanded over his shoulder. Decker paused and took a moment to subtly shift his erection into a more manageable position. A minute later, he was standing by the kitchen sink, hurriedly shoving a dry sponge over his lunch plate. His mother appeared at his side. Plunking her own dish into the sink, she swung the faucet over and started filling the basin.

Decker snuck a few furtive glances up at her face, gauging her mood. She was definitely wrestling with something. What had she been saying? Something about the birds and the bees? Decker had experienced the last few minutes of conversation through a fog of erotic stimulation, and his brain was properly fried. As his breathing gradually returned to normal, he resolved to keep his mouth shut, finish cleaning this dish, and retreat to the safety of his room for some five fingered relief.

“Ohhkay-- Decky done-done!”, he proclaimed, calling back one of their old inside jokes. As a toddler, Decker would use that phrase to announce that he was bored and ready to leave.

Suzanne stepped behind him, thwarting his escape, and hugged her boy tightly across his shoulders. She stooped over and drew him in close. Clinging to his back, she swayed lightly and rested her cheek on the top of his head.

“Little Decky’s all done-done, huh? I can’t imagine why you’d hurry to leave this conversation, after all the fun I’m being.” she said apologetically.

“I’m sorry to have gotten all serious back there, kiddo. I never know how to broach romance stuff. You know me. I’m not a very “birds-and-bees” kind of person.” She squeezed him again.

It was true. Mom was probably the least sexual person he’d ever heard of. Dad had left them years ago, and Decker couldn't remember her going on so much as a date since. She spent all of her time at work or puttering around the house. Which made the past two days extra confusing. Why was Mom suddenly so freaky? And why with him of all people? Maybe she was going nuts? Or maybe the poem was magic, somehow? Whatever it was, the stalagmite in his PJs needed tending to. Making matters worse in the boner department, Mom's affectionate squeezes were mushing her weighty chest into his upper back. His bedroom (and the tube of hand lotion hidden in his nightstand) beckoned.

“It’s ok Mom. We don’t need to talk about that stuff.” He reached back awkwardly and patted her arm. That seemed to satisfy her, and she exhaled again, this time loosening her hug a bit. As the moments passed, Decker grew more resigned to the fact that he wasn’t going anywhere for a while, so he relaxed into Mom’s soft terry cloth embrace. Boner or not, he had to admit that the back hug felt kind of nice. Between the thick robe and Mom’s natural padding, her chest made a wonderfully soft cushion to sink into. Her unkempt ponytail hung to his right, giving off a pleasant scent of lavender shampoo.

“Thank you, my sweet boy. No more of this awkward talk from Mom, you have my word. Won’t you please resume telling me everything, and I’ll take care of this pesky dish of yours?” Suzanne took the plate from him, and held it to his face.

“Next time, get it wet, maybe?” she clucked her tongue playfully in mock disappointment. Decker grinned. “Do I need to watch you do this?” he joked back.

“Absolutely mister. Now, soap me.” Suzanne planted a loud smooch on the top of her son’s head and held out her empty hand over the sink. Decker grabbed the dish soap and squeezed a dollop into her palm, then watched his mother’s slender, elegant fingers work up a good lather.

A minute later, Suzanne had washed her way through most of the dishes, and Decker was back in storytime mode: holding forth on his least favorite teachers. Suzanne was idly humming her acknowledgements (a smattering of thoughtful “Oh”s, and “Mhm”s) when she interjected softly. Decker almost missed it:

“Oh honey, that looks pretty uncomfortable. May I?”

Decker twisted his face upward and read his mother’s expression. She looked completely appropriate for a woman washing dishes while a kid told her stories: bored out of her skull. Her glazed eyes listlessly watched the dish in her thoroughly sudsy hands. Who was Mom talking to? She certainly wasn't looking at him. When she finished the plate, however, Mom slid the wet dish onto the drying rack and nimbly reached down his front. Decker sniffed in surprise.

Stooping down until their heads were side by side, Suzanne dug her soapy thumbs into the elastic waistband of her son’s pajama bottoms and casually shimmied them down to his knees. Her hands moved so swiftly that Decker didn’t even have time to register embarrassment. He watched numbly as his stalwart erection poked up into the afternoon air, free and hard as ever. Mom wrapped her soap-slick left hand firmly around his shaft, enveloping his bulging inches in her warm, slick palm. Her right hand tended to his testicles, lightly stimulating his balls with gentle squeezes and fingertip strokes along the underside.

After the mania and anxiety of his lunchtime footjob, Decker was simply unable to muster the mental energy to process this new development. His conscious mind faded into the background, and his lizard brain took the wheel. He succumbed to the experience. The slippery, tingling ecstasy of Mom’s soft palms sliding up and down his penis overwhelmed him, a passenger in his own body. His eyelids, suddenly heavy, lowered until he was watching his mother’s stroking hands through slits. He leaned his head back and rested against her soft cheek. His middle flexed and straightened on its own easy rhythm, dancing to the wet *schluk*, *schluk* sounds that filled the room along with his ragged breathing. He inhaled the prosaic mix of dish soap and lavender shampoo, and luxuriated in the moment. All the while Mom’s busy hands sublimely worked his cock.

“...honey? Decker?” He tilted his head up and raised his eyelids. Mom’s face was still stuck in dishwashing mode, but now her bored eyes stared at his sudsy crotch and her work there. As he attempted to answer, Mom’s fingers adjusted their technique, and his knees trembled. Her left pointer finger now made a tight, slippery ring with the crook of her thumb (something resembling the “OK” hand sign) and she trapped his glans in it while her right hand leisurely fondled and toyed with his balls. It was exquisite.

“Ye-yes, Mom?” Decker croaked between sighs.

“Aren’t you going to finish your story, sweetie? I’m almost done with the dishes.” She nodded towards the sink, her tone betraying nothing out of the ordinary. Just a casual afternoon in:  washing some dishes, jerking off her son.

“Aghh, hnghh” (Uh huh) he groaned in reply, and shut his eyes.

Again, Decker puzzled over his mother’s behavior. Part of him wanted to dwell on how freaky she was being, (just as part of him wanted to reply with words instead of groans) but just then Mom’s hands changed again, and now his thinking was through. Mom’s OK sign (her tight soap slick ring) had slid down past his glans and was playing his shaft like a trombone. His chin and shoulders began to roll involuntarily. Whatever her hand was doing to his balls was perfection, he never wanted-

“...sweetheart?” Mom’s sudsy grip on his shaft faltered, along with Decker’s IV drip of ecstasy. He opened his eyes, alarmed. Suzanne’s worried face filled his view. She had craned her neck down to stare at him, squinting with concern.

“I said, ‘are you ok’?” she asked. Her left hand was still gently masturbating him, but her pace was now maddeningly, tantalizingly slow. The net effect of this painful pleasure elevated Decker’s weiner to new heights of hardness, a few degrees beyond steel rod. He briefly considered begging her to “Please Mom just shut up and make me cum”, but thought better of it. Pausing for another moment, he tried a different approach.

“Y-you missed a spot. On. On your dish, Mom.” he mustered, and cast his eyes down at her slowly rolling wrist and fingers. Surprised amusement played across Suzanne’s face, and she peered down at her son’s hardness.

“Oh, is that right, chief? Think you can do a better job cleaning plates than your old Mom?” she asked, clucking her tongue again.

“N-no. No. You do it …good.” he assured her. He’d been playing with his peter nightly for a year now, but Mom’s handjob expertise was in a whole different league: Her left hand’s velvet sliding palms, her fluttering fingers, her thumb’s idle caresses along his sac. For the second time in two days, he was well on the way to the strongest orgasm of his life.

“I ‘do it good’, mister caveman?” she teased, locking her elbow and rolling her hand and wrist smoothly up and around the top of his shaft. His eyes nearly crossed, and she playfully stuck out her tongue, making her own silly face to mirror his.

“Ok, well let’s see if Mom’s patented elbow grease can finish the job to your satisfaction. Soap me, chief.”

“Hunh?” Decker’s body re-routed some blood away from his genitals to his eyes, and he saw his mother’s right hand, again held out again over the sink. After two jerky, failed attempts Decker managed to grab the dish soap, careful not to move his pelvis away from Mom’s steadily stroking left hand. He squeezed another dollop into her right palm, and the freshly lubricated fingers returned to his testicles to work up an even slicker lather.

Mom’s left hand picked up the pace, and her stroking intensified. Decker was going to come. Hard.

Just as he felt himself about to crest, his peripheral vision registered his mother scooching down, bringing her face to the side of his. “Ok--I think…. this... job… is just about...finished” she whispered breathily, over the light *schluckschlukschluk* of her pistoning hand.

He was reveling in the tickle of Mom’s hot breath on his neck, when her tongue flicked out and wetly licked the back of his ear. This surprising, obscene act’s tactile contrast to her stroking and kneading hands flooded his brain with bliss. In the final moment before his orgasm, his mother lightly tongued his earlobe and sucked it into her mouth, tipping him over the edge. Decker felt a sudden seizing, as if he was about to violently sneeze again and again. A shiver of electricity ran up his spine, the root of his overstimulated cock contracted into a diamond, and he erupted.

“Unhh UNHH AAUUUHHMM” he sang out a deep, humming moan while his mother lightly nibbled and suckled his ear.

He ejaculated once against the sink cabinet’s door, leaving a healthy splatter of cum, then once, twice more over his mother’s curled fingers as she tenderly milked him. Decker’s abdominal muscles had taken on a life of their own. His hips hitched and jumped like a flag on a windy day. His knees buckled, and he held the edge of the counter to keep from collapsing. All the while, his mother’s steady strokes drew the mighty orgasm through him. Her tongue was probing his ear now, and the crash of her breath filled his empty mind, the soundtrack to his climax.

“--come on honey, don’t groan. It’s not that bad to watch your old mom do some dishes, is it?” Suzanne purred cheerily. Her hands had turned to aftercare: one slowed its pace and gently but firmly wrung out the length of his deflating penis, working the last bit of toothpaste from his spent tube. Her other hand warmly cupped his balls.

Still trembling from his orgasm, Decker leaned his head back, again resting on his mother’s cheek. He was the most sated he’d ever been in his life. Calmly, he thought that he truly could die at that moment--surely nothing would ever come close to what he'd just experienced.

“All this washing up, and I have no idea what we’ll eat for dinner.” Suzanne mused absentmindedly, drawing her milky fingers to her face. She heavily licked the sides of her hand, slurping up her son’s spend as some escaped down her forearm. Decker ogled, paralyzed while his mother sucked her palm and fingers clean of his cum, finally swallowing wetly.

“Ok! Now ‘my Decky's done-done’.” She smiled broadly at him from between spit-slick, air quoting fingers.  Decker nodded dumbly, and looked into the sink basin. The dishes were indeed done, but a remnant of his explosive orgasm (i.e. a mighty splotch of his cum) had started to run a dribble down the cabinet door.

“Oops! Looks like I missed one.” Mom said from above. She deftly swept three fingers up the wood grain door, scooping up the dribble-y splotch, then fed the cummy mess into her mouth. After working her fingers clean with her tongue, she pulled them out with a soft *plop*.

“There--now we’re done.” She said, pausing mid sentence to swallow.