I've always been a bit girly. When I was younger, I begged my mom for a potted orchid to keep in my room, that sort of thing. I never had much to do with women's clothing till my late 20s though. Well, with one exception. Though the house I grew up in was large, with three baths, I always wanted to shower in my parent's bath, and my mom always left a silk braw out for me that I'd masturbate with. I did it without thinking. It was soft, it felt wonderful. It was my mother's, but so what? A few years later, I discovered I had mommy issues.

It began when the mother of a friend tried to seduce me. No, I wasn't imagining things, but I won't go further. It sparked something in me and I found myself masturbating to dirty stories on the internet of sons and mothers. I expecially liked the ones where the mothers called the sons baby and the baby called the mother's mommy, and best of all when the mommy called herself mommy. I love my mommy, I do. You have to understand that. In many of these stories, the boys treated their mothers like whores or else they were cowed by them. That's part of any relationshiop, yes, but I thought of these incestuous acts as an extension of the mother/son relationship. A mother and son couldn't happen to be lovers anymore than lovers could happen to be mother and son.

If I have a regret, it's that it didn't all begin ten years sooner. We had so many arguments, my mother and I. Relationship ending arguments that were swept under the rug four or eight months later when we professed our love of each other. I saw later that this anger was born of a frustrated desire. That desire never fades. What a mother and son become, they remain forever, which is enticing to a mother and a son both. I've never been faithful to a woman since Mommy and I . . . but let me start at the beginning.

When I was staying at home, after my parents divorce, I used to leave my door cracked at night and pretend my mom was watching me play with myself. I was too shy to call her name, but still I became increasingly sure that my fantasies were a reality. One night, when I put my finger in my ass, I heard a tap on the door. It started me and I pulled the blanket up. "Mom?" There was no answer, of course.

No, this is no good either. Let me write my fantasy of how it could have happened:

My parents divorced when I was fourteen. My mom began taking an increased emotional interest in me, and physical. She would hug me and cry, we would hold each other in bed while I humped her leg, something she did not comment on. I learned quickly that I could get more from her if I told her that I loved her, so I would. "I love you, Mommy." She would rub my back with my face pressed into her breasts. She began to call me her daughter, and I didn't mind, didn't mind the pretty things she bought me, didn't mind pulling on my dick with her in my thoughts, not images of her, just my love of her, and my endless need, my endless need for my mommy. When I would cum inside her later, I would pull her to me afterward and clutch her tight, ranting in a quiet voice how I needed her. The orgasm itself was . . . "I think I have some more cum for you, Mommy." and I would cum again, 38-years-old with a wife at home. The orgasm was almost drowned out by the sensation of ejaculation, a spiritual experience, but both were dwarfed by the feverish pitch of worshipping the hole that birthed me and the woman who was everything to me. We rutted, we fucked.

Her pussy called to me in my youth. I would fuck my fist, fuck my ass with a toy she left on the counter one day and asked me to throw out in the trashcan at the curb when the garbage truck was down the block — there was always plenty of vasoline in Mommy's bathroom. I wore my panties, I wore my dresses, my heels, my hair grew and was permed and highlighted. And touched less and less.

Shame got the better of me, but her pussy would call to me and I'd find myself jerking my dick, loving my Mommy, so happy. At first, horny. Then the physical sensation would fade and there was only joy in loving Mommy. Then shame after cumming for her, though I knew I was a good boy for doing so. Later, when I touched myself, quietly professing love for her in a chittering voice, it was not shame, but surrender to the hold she had on me. And within three days, I would stop by.

She kept to herself and didn't demand much. Sex was always the same. Always. I would tease her to orgasm a few times — she came so easily with me — I would lift her legs and enter her, finish cumming, then suckle. Her nipple on my tongue, her breast heaving in and out of my mouth. It's not something I care to write about. It was need, need. The walls could catch fire and I wouldn't have stopped till I had my fill. Then I would clime atop her chest, put an extra pillow behind her head, and rub my dick on her mouth until she opened it, then gently fuck her face.

Well, sometimes she would take me. In drag. She would fuck and fuck and fuck my asshole with a look of worried concentration, usually missionary. We had a ten inch toy and eight inches inside me was plenty. I'd lift my legs up under her arms and lock my ankles at the top of her back and pull her into me, as she tried to shush my screams when I twisted the head of my little boy dick.

My dick belongs to my Mommy. Other women defile it. That doesn't keep me from fucking them. I just know the truth now which few men do. I'm my mommy's whore.