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We lived a comfortable if not extravagant existence. I loved him because he was a stern but loving symbol of stability.
He provided an effective image of manhood for me to emulate. She was washing her pussy, cleaning out the remnants of tonight’s sex. I watched as she used both hands to smooth her pussy hair. Then she ran her finger in her pussy, pulled it out and licked it. I barely made it back before I heard her padding barefoot across the hall.
She would titter like a school girl who had a lewd suggestion made to her. The hall was dimly lit by the house exterior lights.
The type of suggestion that at one time excited and frightened her. Others frowned at the public display of sexual sentiment. I was stunned to see mom walk out of the bedroom stark naked. She walked wide legged, unaware that her son was watching this erotic display of sex’s aftermath. Then I realized she was holding dad’s cum in her pussy.
I had sneaked a peek in her lingerie drawer and knew she was a 38D cup. He was fulfilling the subconscious need to outdo his father and possess his mom. Some saint or other was depicted with his hands raised in benediction. Then I would add my sperm to the load dad had left. I didn’t know it then but years later I would read an article that said sons always lust for their mothers. Or maybe he was expressing horror at the banalities of life that he had to witness. Most men spend their lives looking for a woman who remind them of mom so they can fuck her. The plane was a 727, the workhorse of the airlines in those days. On a 727 that meant tons of legroom in the three across seats. My mom, Jamie, and dad, John, had dragged me along. Weakly I braced myself against the toilet and struggled to my feet. Many nights I had whacked off to the sounds of their lovemaking. Even though I never met my grandmother they felt family needed to be there. I chewed hard on the towel in my mouth, extracting the last vestiges of honey. I had grown skilled at finding mom’s panties from those nights.