Not Yet But Now 1

Not Yet But Now, Ch. 1 of 15
by Dirty Pierre

What I mainly remember is a great sadness in the house. An emptiness that gripped each of us alone and all of us together: my mum, my sister and I. The hushed talk, strangers telling me how sorry they were, what a great guy he was, red-eyed adults helping themselves from plates of sandwiches. Funerals are sometimes almost jolly, when they come at the end of a long life and reminiscence is full of the happy or stupid doings of the departed. Not this one, my first.

“It’s a terrible thing…you poor dear…Andrea, we are so, so sorry…”

And so it went all through that long day, until finally even our grandparents had departed and we three were alone. So we all lay on the bed that had been our parents’, the lovely young widow, her pretty daughter and her four year old son. And we wept and Mum held us close, one on each side of her, and stroked our hair as we laid our heads on her breast. And she wept too, for the loss of her mate, our father, and kissed our brows fiercely.

Was it that loss which made her so protective of us and we so close? I dare say it loomed large. But however it may be, our family became we three, the gypsy looks of my mother, Alice very fair and leggy, me somewhere between: brown haired but with much-freckled fair skin

And, still at kindergarten, I hated to part from her, but would grab her flowing skirts, hug her thighs and press my little face into her powder-scented crotch rather than suffer that absence, dimly conscious of its warmth, until despite my tears she could extricate herself. For which Alice, in all her three-years-older maturity and independence called me “such a mummy’s boy.”

But it was true. And often in the night, following my frequent nightmares, I would trot along to her room and spend the remaining hours of darkness snuggled in the reassuring comfort of her arms and her bed.

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Summers we spent at the beach with Mum’s parents. Mum sported a bikini – a deal more modest than those of today, but of its time an alluring garment, to judge by the male looks it garnered, from teens to grey-haired grandpas. To see her stepping gracefully across the sand, broad-brimmed sunhat, Jackie Onassis sunglasses, her sheer wrap fluttering in the breeze was to watch a regal process.

For she was exceedingly graceful. Even as a tiny kid I was aware of that. The way she placed her feet, sure but dainty, unhurried in all her movements. To say she strutted across the sand would wrongly imply a pride or conceit that was not there. But she stepped out, confident in her own skin, a tremor in the flesh of her breasts with each stride, her hips moving like honey.

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Now here’s a thing that I cannot rightly understand. It seems that from infancy America keeps its body hidden, for fear or shame. All the while feeding a steady diet of titillating entertainment to young and old alike – from MTV to pornography of the most base, depraved and exploitative stripe.

It was not like that with us. In those days before universal air conditioning, hot weather led to us shedding clothes: it was entirely usual for us to sport only our underwear when inside our summer-stifling house. Throughout my childhood we often took baths together, Mum, Alice and I. Floating plastic boats in and out between Mum’s soapy breasts, aware of the difference in each other’s privates. Skinny Alice no more thought to hide her little pubic mound and the tiny slit below than I tried to cover my boyish willie or the wrinkly seed pod beneath it. For her part, Mum made no effort to hide her dark womanly pubic thatch, though as I came in time to realise, she did keep it neat and pretty.

But the rest of the time it was nothing to walk in on either of them bathing: we knew well what our nakedness looked like. Alice and I knew we peed differently: we’d often watched each other do it in the innocent exploration of difference.

As a small boy, my occasional erections drew a deal of hilarity from us all. “Look, look!” I’d cry, standing in the bath and twanging on the tiny stiff digit poking from my crotch, generating laughter from both of them.

Other times, I’d chatter away to Mum as she undressed in her bedroom, exposing her bottom as she bent to slide silky panties down her long smooth legs or allowing her full breasts to swing free from the confinement of her bra. And after bathing, daintily perching now one foot, now the other on the edge of the bath as she dried her bottom, unselfconsciously rubbing the lotion over her flanks and belly and breasts that made her skin smell so nice, casually dabbing scented powder on the furry nest between her legs. Or she might be sitting naked but for a pair of stockings on the stool before the mirror of her dressing table, applying mascara and lipstick with concentration. Only on reflection do I now see the sexuality she displayed; then I was oblivious, and I don’t believe either of us gave it a moment’s thought.

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I guess that most little boys think their mothers are the most beautiful women in the world and at some point want to marry them. I was no different. I suppose I was ahead of the game, in that I didn’t have a father to usurp. Nor was there any hint of a step-dad becoming involved in our lives. For all her desirability, Mum didn’t go out with men. I can’t believe that she wasn’t asked, but it didn’t happen. Her nights were spent with us at home.

Though sometimes she was teary. And at such times she would hold me very tight, my face pressed into her warm breasts and call me her precious boy, her little man. I loved the heat that came from her body, her gentle hands stroking my hair. And, as the years passed, in such moments I found my little cock growing hard as I pressed myself to the warmth radiating from her, not yet conscious of its portents.

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Bath times together gradually ceased when I was about 8 years old. I thought nothing of it at the time, but around the point when her body began to change Alice no longer joined us. I still often saw her naked, her young breasts budding on her chest, downy blonde hair beginning to grow between her legs. Those changes in her doubtless precipitated this. And although Mum spoke openly with both of us about what they meant, saying that Alice was now becoming a woman, did not carry any great connotation for me beyond perhaps a recognition that she was going to have boobs on her chest and hair down below like Mum herself.

There were occasional nights then when Mum’s bedroom door was closed. It had never been so before, but I did not remark upon it.

Mum and I still sometimes shared the tub, but not often beyond my 9th year. Perhaps the intrusive erections of my little penis became too frequent; I gained a vague sense about that time that its becoming stiff was not wholly something to laugh about. Showing it to Mum no longer seemed to amuse her the way it had previously; she did not recoil or scold but some other undercurrent was at work, though I knew not what it might be.

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Like Alice, I began to sprout pubic hair around age 11 and a little fuzz on my upper lip, and my little boy penis began to grow. I was hungry all the time, and quite proudly growing taller, rapidly catching up to Alice, who at 14 was becoming slim and coltish. She was invited out by a boy to her first formal night-time thing and got a special aqua dress for the occasion, and white shoes with short heels.

Accompanying Mum to take photos of her in the back garden before she went out, I had a sudden and distinct realisation of how lovely she had become. In one moment she was no longer the girl with whom I’d played and fought all my life; she was a young princess.

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But I had a problem. As I grew, my unruly penis was becoming an embarrassment. It would get suddenly hard with increasing frequency and for no apparent reason. I might be sitting at the table at home, or walking in the street and there it would go: suddenly very rigid and insistent. And it might stay that way for quite some minutes before it went down again. Somehow I knew that its occurrence was publicly awkward, and prayed that it not happen where I might be seen. More than once I was forced to adopt strange postures when speaking with well-intentioned neighbours or dealing with shop folk, that they might not see the pointing in my pants. And I didn’t want Alice or Mum to notice it either, though Mum did several times, and I swear she gave a little smile to herself.

I did know about the birds and the bees. Mum told me about that. About the egg and the sperm and all that stuff. The whole business seemed most unlikely.

It had gradually been getting worse, but one night my penis problem became insurmountable. I’d come to dread the sudden, uncontrolled, uncontrollable hardness that seemed to come from nowhere. On going to bed, my cock became very stiff and hot as it now almost invariably did. But as I lay there it would not go down. Minutes passed, a quarter of an hour, half an hour perhaps, and it still jutted fiercely from my crotch, almost painful in its hardness.

Something was obviously wrong. I did not know what to do. Slipping out of bed I padded once more up the passage to Mum’s darkened room.

“Mum?” I began plaintively from the foot of the bed.

“Mmmm, what is it darling?” she sleepily responded.

“Mum, there’s something wrong.”

“What is it?” Her voice betrayed alarm, and she sat up, turning on her bed-side lamp.

“It’s my…thing,” I faltered. “It won’t go down…”

It was a few moments before she took this in, but then she visibly relaxed.

“Oh darling, I’m sure it’s all right,” she reassured me. “Let me see.”

I moved closer, my pubescent erection stretching the front of my pyjamas.

Mum was in a filmy nightgown, her brown areolas and nipples shadowed dark beneath its translucence. She stared at the pronged point in my pants for a few moments as if thinking.

“Take off your ‘jamas, darling. Yes, the bottoms, too. Now, come on, hop in here with me.”

She shifted across the bed and lifted the covers. I slipped in beside her warm familiar form, lying face to face.

“Don’t look so worried, sweetheart,” she reassured me, smoothing my brow with her hand, “It’s going to be all right”.

In the dim light her eyes were pools of darkness, the border between her inky hair and the night indistinct. She slipped her left arm beneath my neck, cradling my head in her elbow, then brought her right hand to her mouth and licked her fingers. I felt her reaching below the covers and gently closing her hand around my hot little cock, moving it slightly back and forth on its burning length.

“Does that feel nice, darling?” she murmured quietly.

“Oh, Mum…!”

“Does it make you feel better?”

“Oh, I…! Mum…!”

She stroked so knowingly, so surely, a perfect friction on my hot young dick-flesh, so hard, so very stiff and hot it was for Mummy…

“Let it go darling, let it all go…” she murmured huskily.

I lasted only moments before the wave of sex-joy rushed through me. I began thrusting my hips back and forth to work my awakened cock into her hand, to make her, make her finish me. I know that finish is there. Mummy make my young crotch explode in pleasure. Yes, Mummy. Yes, Mummy, make it…oh, that’s it!

“Cum, baby. Cum for me…” she whispered, at once hot, reassuring and full of love. “Ooh, darling,” she cooed as my orgasm overwhelmed me, “Oh, yes, my sweet boy, my darling!”, and as I writhed against her breasts and my cock throbbed in her loving grasp she rained little kisses on my face and I pressed myself to her in surrender.

As my orgasm subsided I became aware that I’d released a lot of wetness into my loving mother’s hand and was suddenly embarrassed.

“Mum, I’m sorry, I think I’ve wet…” I began.

“No, no, no, shh darling,” she smiled. “That’s not wee. That’s your semen, your cum. You know? I told you about that.”

She brought her hand from beneath the covers and showed it – blobs of pearly translucent whiteness dripped from her fingers. She inhaled deeply and tears welled in her eyes.

“Mum?”

“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s just been so long since I smelt that…” She smiled at me again.

“Although I think we’ve made rather a mess under here,” she continued lightly, lifting the covers to reveal a large patch between us and little arcs of wetness dampening the material of her nightie, making it stick to her hip.

She sat up and drew the wet garment over her head, her full breasts trembling as she did so. Then she crumpled it up and mopped up the deposit on the sheets.

“That’s better,” she said matter-of-factly and tossed it onto the floor. “So,” turning her attention to me once more, “Do you feel better now?”

“Yes. Much better.”

“Well, give me a kiss and off to sleep.”

We pecked each other on the lips and I rolled over. Mum got up and put on a clean nightie before snuggling back under the covers. I felt her hand resting on my hip and we lay quietly.

Mum’s breathing was soon deep and regular, but sleep did not come quickly to me. All I did not previously know had been revealed. And as I went over these events I recognised another thing. In those moments when she had teased the elixir of pleasure from my boyish member I dimly knew also something else: a deep animal desire for one thing. Cunt. For the hairy wet closeness of hot steamy cunt. For the sweaty sticky heat of the yet unseen gash between my mother’s smooth thighs. For the pink mummy fuck-hole that bore me. To paw her flesh and bury myself inside her and rut in delirious lust and fill her body with my hot sperm, over and over and over.

This dark thing, too, I now knew before sleep came to me.

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Chapter 2 >>

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3 thoughts on “Not Yet But Now 1

  1. Wow! Masterfully written. I miss those halcyon days when getting rid of an erection was more of a problem than keeping one. I actually had a similar, though non-erotic, experience when I was 10 and just began masturbating. For some reason my balls began to ache continuously and I was afraid that I’d injured myself, but I waited until I just couldn’t stand it before finally telling my mom. She had me lie down on her bed with my underwear down and examined me, gently lifting my balls with her fingers and rolling them with her thumb while my stomach twitched and spasmed in pain and my testicles contracted repeatedly in her hands. I whined and squirmed, but she just kept rubbing my balls while speaking to me soothingly so I would relax.

    Eventually whatever she was doing actually did help, but what I remember most about the experience was the confident sure-handedness (pun not intended) and soothing touch that only a mother can provide. There was nothing sexual in it. I didn’t even get an involuntary erection – the pain was that bad. But that specific kind of loving touch is one of the most powerful expressions of motherhood that there is. I didn’t get along with my mother at all in those days – she was very strict and even cold at times, but those moments when she would display this tender side of herself (mostly when I was sick, but only after confirming that I really was sick, which was a bit cruel) are like twinkling stars in the dark night of mostly bad memories. That’s why I love mother/son incest stories, especially tender ones like this. Not because I actually wanted to have sex with my mother, but because the idea of a mother who could be that loving all the time is not only erotic, but cathartic.

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