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by Victoria Blackstone
Published by Lot’s Cave
Mom's Tender Love, © 2017, by Victoria Blackstone
All Rights Reserved
Cover by Morgaine Wrightman
All Characters In This Book Are Age 18 Or Older
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the Lot’s Cave website and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Lot’s Cave Novel
Mom's Tender Love
My pace slowed as I approached, my stomach fluttering. The door closed. I’d left it open last night, just as I do every night. This could only mean that my mother was in there, taking a bath. Naked.
I entered without knocking, pushing the door open slowly, giving her the chance to stop me. She wouldn’t, though. I’d knocked the first twenty or so times, but the last few she’d told me there was no need. You’d think that by age 18 I’d have had more confidence. In hindsight, she was right; she knew I needed to get ready for school.
I greeted her with a shy smile, holding my hand in front of myself in a vain attempt to hide my morning erection. My gaze, of its own accord, eased down to her breasts before quickly moving on to her stomach, gently rounded from three children, then to the tangle of curls atop her mound. I didn’t allow my gaze to linger, didn’t want her to think I was having dirty thoughts. I brought my gaze back up to her face, to the patient smile there. I returned it then moved to the toilet, which, mercifully, faced the tub, the orientation of the thing placing my back to her as I stood before it, offering me a modicum of much-needed privacy as I fished my still-erect penis out of my briefs and tried to angle the thing down. It was supremely embarrassing because I knew that she knew I was hard. But I needed to go, and I closed my eyes, willing the stream to start, hoping I had the rigid shaft pushed down far enough so that my pee made it into the bowl.
I could hear the water behind me as she moved, and a moment later I blew out a breath, moaning quietly as a stream of hot pee came shooting out. It hit the rim of the toilet, just below the seat, and I arched my back further, and pushed even harder on my already-too-far-bent dick. And as my bladder emptied, my erection began to ebb, some of the tension leaving me. I straightened more and more until I was able to stand mostly upright, and shook the last drops of urine into the bowl. I pushed my penis back into its cotton home, flushed, washed, then left her with an embarrassed smile.
Fifteen minutes later I returned to the bathroom and reached for my toothbrush, and as I brushed I turned to lean my hip against the sink.
She moved her hands up and down in the water, making small waves. I held her gaze for a few long moments before the pull of her breasts grew too strong. Her breasts are grapefruit-sized, with large, pebbled areolas in a deep, dark rose, a hue that contrasts nicely with her pale, milky skin. It’s her nipples that draw my attention, though, and as I continued to stare at them, they began to harden, the long, thick nubs making my mouth water. She has, in my humble opinion, the world’s most perfect breasts.
My gaze drifted, from her breasts to the neatly-trimmed patch of hair at the base of her belly.
“How did you sleep?”
I shrugged, then turned back to the sink to spit. Once I’d rinsed, I set to work on my hair. In contrast to my father’s stylish, jet-black hair, mine rarely cooperates, and as I tried to order my dark, unruly locks, my mind drifted.
My mother never spoke about me sneaking into bed with her, nearly every night, seeking comfort from the thoughts that tortured me; Why am I here? Who am I? What’s the point to it all? In hindsight, I was just confused, just trying to figure out where I fit in, trying to find my place. Oh, how I wished there were some magic words she could utter that would put my mind at ease. When I was older I would come to realize that she didn’t have all the answers. What she did have was the ability to calm me. She would lift the covers when I would appear beside her bed, in the middle of the night, looking lost and afraid, and she would pull me to her, her breath in my hair as she stroked her thumb over me; my brow, my shoulder, the back of my hand, and with the magic of a mother’s touch, I would calm and, eventually, sleep. Invariably, though, she would take me back to my room, sometimes within twenty or thirty minutes, sometimes hours later, just before my father got up for work. At the time, I wasn’t sure why I wasn’t allowed to stay with her until morning, but I later deduced that she was trying to wean my from her, trying to strike a balance; give me what I needed in the moment, in the middle of the night, then gently push me away, once I’d calmed.
Some nights I would go willingly. Some nights, though, I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone, and it was on those nights that she would lead me back to my own bed, tuck me in, and sit with me, patiently pushing her fingers through my hair as she whispered to me that everything was alright, that I was okay, and that I could sleep. And, eventually, I did.
Her voice brought me back to the here and now. “You were awfully clingy last night.”
There was a hint of amusement in her tone, and I felt my cheeks heat. I thought back to last night, and wondered if the dream I’d had of pushing my erection against her warm thigh hadn’t actually been a memory. My stomach fluttered, but I forced all thoughts of her warm thighs from my mind and concentrated, instead, on finishing with my hair. A few minutes later I was satisfied with it, though still annoyed that it wasn’t more cooperative.