Story Excerpt

Mother Son Make Love, by Jezebel Rose

When I woke up the day after, having evicted myself from the Virgins Club at the age of 19 and having had one of those nights that I will remember until the day I die, I found that while I was a new man, nothing had changed to everyone else. I had been through heaven, you may recall, but to my mom and my sister—especially to my sister— things were as they had always been.

I could not understand how something so wonderful, which left an incredible mark on my psyche, could not affect her. As I relived those moments of what I would call pure ecstasy, it seemed they meant nothing to her. I was perturbed. I did not know if my first time had been so lackluster for her that it did not warrant acknowledgment, not to mention a repeat performance. As I tried to keep the memory fresh in my mind of what had transpired, it was washed away with anguish over why she was so reserved about the whole thing.

Then there was the matter of my mother. After being chased by her with a broom, being cursed to kingdom come, and being yelled at like there was no tomorrow—for sniffing my sister’s panties—I knew that THE TALK wasn’t too far behind.

Yes, THE TALK; more like a lecture; a heavy torture session. I had been through many of those in the past, as had my sister. In the past, I had no choice but to sit through one of my mother’s sessions where she told me how disappointed she was in me, or how I had failed to live up to any of her expectations, or even how she wished she hadn’t given birth to me. This time, however, things were different. Well, I was different. I was no longer a boy younger than 18 that she could scold at a whim. I was a man, closing in strongly on my 20th birthday. I had been turned into a man by a magical orifice, called the pussy. I had been to the mountaintop and back, and I now possessed the wisdom that only comes from using one’s other head. Oh, how I wished I could use that head again; enter that heavenly body of my sister; maybe leave a part of myself behind; only to become a better man.

I did not want the talk, which was for sure; just as sure as the fact that it was coming nevertheless. This time I wanted to have the choice to say no. I had enough of her talks, and I was old enough not to have to listen to her. At the same time, she did not know that I had leaped to manhood by going down on my sister, so she was not going to stop.

She found the opportunity a couple of Saturdays later when she found me sitting at the breakfast table, moping, only she didn’t know I was moping. She just saw me with a solemn expression on my face and took it to mean that I was receptive to her TALK.

She started in her usual way by saying: “Son, I want to talk to you.”

I just looked at her without saying anything. I had that same seriousness in my eyes, and she took it to mean that I was attentive.

She paused, cleared her throat, and before I could tell her where to go with her talk, she threw me a curveball: “Son, I wanted to apologize for my reaction the other day.”

I was taken aback. This was my mother—the woman who used to slap me for something as simple as a short delay in responding to her commands—apologizing for something that she probably was justified in doing. I had this sudden urge to go outside and check to see if the sun was rising from the West.

I was speechless. She took my silence to mean that I was still angry with her and asked me: “Are you upset with me?”

I had to think quickly. I was surprised as heck at her apology, but I realized that I had some upper hand in the whole matter and it would be a mistake not to use—or abuse—my advantage.

I answered, rather curtly: “Shouldn’t I be?”

More surprise was waiting for me in her reply: “Yes, you should, I suppose. You have every right to be mad at me.”

I just looked at her in silence. She clarified her statement: “I had a lengthy talk with your aunt, and she told me that what you did was a normal thing and by getting upset the way I did, I probably did more damage than good.”

I knew I always liked my aunt, but I did not think she would take my side on this issue. Those of you who have read the first part of my story, know that I am talking about how my mother had over-reacted when I tried to find out what a pussy smells like by smelling my sister’s wet panties, only to be caught red-handed by my mother, who then chased me around with a broom and cursed the daylights out of me as I ran to my room and locked myself in. I was where my sister came to my rescue and then later gave me her clean panties, which I told her didn’t serve my purpose, which she then replaced with panties full of her juices, which I then smelled and tasted, only to find out that my sister was so excited by the fact that I had tasted her that she let me taste the real thing, which provided me the opportunity to be IN the real thing.

I sat there quietly. I did not know what to say.

She asked me: “Is it true, son? Did I do more damage than good?”

I thought about it for a while. I realized that my mother was feeling guilty. I knew that guilt is something she laid heavily on us in the past and now the tables had turned. She was feeling guilty because she may have stunted my sexual growth by her reaction. I had no choice but to exploit the situation.

“Yes, I think you may have? I feel afraid of my feelings now.”

“Oh, I am sorry, son. That wasn’t my intention.”

I looked at her for a while, almost staring. I could see in her face that she was feeling sheepish. I decided to lay it down thick: “I know you didn’t mean to, mom. I know you meant well. You tried to do what was right, only to learn that you were so wrong. But it is not your fault.”

Then came what I was hoping for: “What can I do, son, to make it up to you?”

“I don’t know what you can do, mom. I don’t know what anyone can do.” I thought of my sister, and I knew that she could do something, but somehow, she had forgotten all about what she had done in the first place.

“There must be something I can do, I mean, there must.”

“But there isn’t, so just leave it.” I got up as I said that and went to my room. As I passed her by, I saw her head sunk low with what could only be remorse. I could not help but smile.

She came to my room that night. She again asked me if there was anything, she could do to make up. I again replied—very coldly—that there was nothing she could do.

Sunday morning, the same setup, the breakfast table. She came down and stood in front of me. Her hands were behind her back as if she was holding something for me. She moved her body in a semi-circular motion to tease me and then blurted: “I finally figured out what I have to do to make up for my reaction.”

I looked at her seriously, but inquisitively.

She held out her hand to me, and I saw her panties dangling from it. She said: “Here, I give you these to make up for those.”

I stared at her for a while, and then slowly and deliberately reached for them after almost an eternity.

I felt the fabric in my hand. I was starting to feel some tingle in my spine. I turned them inside out and sniffed where her pussy is supposed to be. She gasped when she saw me bury my nose into them. Just like my sister’s first attempt, these were also very clean.

Please purchase this story and support me as an author! Thank you! ~ Jezebel Rose

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