Chapter 2: The Morning After
Ritchie woke at dawn with a problem.
It throbbed. His cock stood straight up under the sheet, rigid and aching, the skin stretched tight and hot. He tried to think of anything else, the score of last night's game, the physics final he'd somehow passed, but the moment he moved his hips the sheet dragged across the head and stars exploded behind his eyes. Two useless casts sat on the pillow beside his ears like Roadblocks. He was trapped.
He lasted forty minutes before he started calling for his mother.
Naomi appeared in the doorway carrying a tray, French toast and orange juice, her hair loose around her shoulders. She'd put on makeup, he noticed. A little eyeliner. A pale yellow tank top cut low enough that the swell of her breasts caught the morning light.
"Breakfast, sweetheart." She set the tray on the nightstand and leaned over him to adjust his pillows, and for a second her chest hung right there, inches from his face, the soft slope of cleavage shifting under cotton. His cock lurched under the sheet so hard it slapped his stomach.
She settled into the chair beside the bed and cut his toast into pieces. She held the fork steady while he leaned into it, and he tried, he genuinely tried, to keep his eyes on the plate. But every time she reached forward, the neckline of that tank top dipped and gravity did its work, and the creamy weight of her tits swayed together, the outline of her little nipples pressing through the fabric.
"Ritchie. You're not chewing."
"Sorry." He chewed. He stared at her collarbone. His cock throbbed so hard it felt bruised.
She fed him toast, then juice, dabbing his lip with a napkin, and all the while her eyes kept dropping. Down past the tray. Down to the sheet, where the fabric was tented into a peak that no blanket in the world could disguise, a ridge of solid flesh pointing at the ceiling, the tip making a small dark stain where it pressed against the cotton.
She set the fork down. "Honey. How long has it been like that?"
"Since I woke up." His voice cracked. "It hurts, Mom. It really hurts."
She stood up so fast the chair skidded. "Eat your toast. Don't move."
She was back in under two minutes, breathing hard, holding the brown paper bag from The Pleasure Chest and the blue bottle of lube. She pulled the chair close and sat, and for a long moment she just looked at her hands.
"Okay." She exhaled. "I bought something yesterday. I was going to wait, but clearly we can't wait." She opened the bag and lifted out the clear plastic case, turning it so he could see the open-ended sleeve inside. "It's called a Fleshlight. It's... it's a sleeve. I hold it, you go inside it, and nobody has to touch anybody. It's a barrier. It's practical. It's..."
She trailed off, because he was staring at the toy, then at her, with an expression she couldn't quite read.
"Mom, you bought me a sex toy?"
"I bought a medical aid." The words came out sharp, defensive, and she heard it herself. Her voice softened. "Yes. I bought you a sex toy. Because you're my son, you're in pain, and I am not going to sit there and watch you suffer when there's a thirty-dollar piece of silicone that solves the whole problem. Are we clear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good." She snapped the case open and slid the sleeve out. "Now, lie back. I need to get these shorts off you."
He lifted his hips as best he could, and she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers and peeled them down. The fabric caught on the crown and she had to tug, and then he sprang free into the open air of his bedroom and Naomi forgot, for a full three seconds, what she was doing.
Eleven inches. Thick as her wrist. The shaft rose from a neat patch of brown curls, veins ridging the skin, and at the tip the fat pink head sat sheathed in foreskin, glistening with pre-cum that had already soaked a patch into the sheet. It wasn't monstrous in a scary way. It was beautiful, in the way a racehorse is beautiful, and some deep, unhelpful part of her brain registered that it was at least double the size of the cock she'd been sleeping next to for fifteen years.
"Stop staring," Ritchie muttered, scarlet.
"I'm not staring. I'm assessing." She tore her eyes away with effort. "You should have told me you were this... proportioned. I'd have bought the big bottle."
She shook lube over her fingers and warmed it, then wrapped her slick hand around the sleeve, not him, and drizzled a generous stream along the toy's inner channel. A second stream she poured directly over his shaft, and it ran down the length of him in slow clear ribbons, pooling at the base, and Ritchie shuddered so hard the bed frame creaked.
"There are two ends," she said, businesslike, holding the toy up. "This one's shaped like a mouth, this one's shaped like... the other thing. Which would you prefer?"
"Ass."
It came out instantly, almost before she finished the question, and something in his tone made her glance up. He flushed deeper, but he didn't take it back. "The ass. Please."
Naomi raised an eyebrow. She filed that away, in a little drawer at the back of her mind that was getting fuller by the day. "The ass it is."
She pressed the sleeve down over the head. The stretch of him filled the toy immediately, the walls gripping him tight, and a full six inches of thick oiled shaft still jutted out past the far opening. Her fingers wrapped around the case, careful to stay on the plastic, and she began to move.
"Oh," Ritchie said. "Oh, God."
The lube made obscene sounds, wet and rhythmic, as she slid the sleeve down his length and back up. She found a pace, slow and deep at first, her wrist rotating slightly on each upstroke the way the store girl had described, and his hips started to lift off the mattress to meet her, chasing the sensation. His thighs tensed. His jaw clenched.
"Mom. Mom, it's so good, I'm already..."
"Let go, sweetheart. That's the whole point."
His cock swelled even thicker inside the sleeve, and then he came. The first rope shot through the open end and spattered across her knuckles and the back of her hand. The second caught the toy itself, the third ran down the outside of the case and dripped onto his stomach. She kept pumping through it, gentle now, milking him, watching with wide green eyes as pulse after pulse emptied out of him. He came more than the boy in the bath had, more than seemed possible, thick white cream overflowing the little sleeve until it squeezed out around the open end.
"There you go," she murmured. "There you go."
He slumped back, chest heaving, sweat at his temples. She set the dripping toy on a towel and went to the bathroom to rinse her hands, and it was only at the sink, watching milky threads swirl down the drain, that she admitted her panties were soaked straight through.
When she came back with a warm washcloth, his cock was still hard. Fully hard. Standing at attention against his belly, glistening, not a bit softened.
"Mom." He looked at her with those helpless brown eyes. "I'm sorry. It's still... can you do it again?"
She looked at that cock, standing tall and needy, and felt her own pulse throb somewhere embarrassing. "It's been two minutes."
"I know. I'm sorry. It just won't go down."
She sighed, reseated herself, and picked up the sleeve. "Well. It's a good thing I bought the big bottle."
The second time, she was less careful. She let her lubed fingers brush the shaft when she adjusted her grip. She noticed he gasped when she did, so she did it again, and this time she let her fingertips trail the whole veiny length as she worked the toy over him. He lasted longer, five minutes of slow slick strokes, his breathing going ragged, until his back arched and he flooded the sleeve again. Less cum this time, but still a shocking amount, still overflowing her hand. Still hard.
"Unbelievable," she whispered.
"Is that bad?"
"No, honey." She wiped him down with the washcloth, taking her time, her thumb stroking the quivering skin just below the head before she could stop herself. "It's just... your father couldn't manage twice in a week. And you're still standing at attention. It's not bad. It's remarkable."
He grinned at her, shy and boyish, and the grin did something to her chest that had nothing to do with motherhood.
They ate lunch at the kitchen table, Larry home briefly between appointments, regaling them with a story about a colorectal conference in Dallas. Naomi cut Ritchie's sandwich into strips and tried to keep her eyes off the way her son's shorts bunched across his lap. The moment the garage door closed behind his father, she was pushing him back toward his room with a hand between his shoulder blades.
"Third time," she said, squeezing lube into the sleeve. "Then I have laundry."
"Right. Laundry."
She rode him slower this time. Deliberate. She'd stopped pretending she wasn't watching, and she watched everything now, the way the foreskin slid back each time she pushed the sleeve past the crown, the way his abs tightened, the little broken sound he made deep in his throat. Her free hand rested flat on his thigh, feeling the muscle quiver, and when he came she held the toy deep and let him pump his load straight through it into her waiting palm.
"God," he panted. "Mom, you're so good at that."
"I'm holding a cup, Ritchie."
"You know what I mean."
She did know what he meant. She'd learned the exact angle he liked, the rhythm that made his toes curl, and some treacherous corner of her mind was proud of it. She washed the toy, washed her hands, changed her own underwear in secret, and got exactly one load of laundry folded before the ache between her legs sent her back down the hall.
Before dinner she took him in the bathroom while the tub filled, his pants around his ankles, her sleeve slick and tight around him, his forehead pressed to her shoulder because his legs were shaking. He came hard, groaning into her hair, and the smell of him, musk and salt and her son, went straight through her like lightning.
By nine that night, five loads later, he was finally limp. Soft, he still hung heavy and long against his thigh, a sleeping python, and Naomi tucked his boxers around him and kissed his forehead like she had when he was five.
"Sleep, sweetheart. You've earned it."
"Best nurse ever," he mumbled, already drifting.
She stood in his doorway a long moment, fingers sticky-slick despite two washings, and felt the throbbing emptiness inside her like a bruise.
Larry was in the bedroom, glasses on, watching the news. She closed the door, crossed the room, and pulled the remote out of his hand.
"Naomi?"
"Take your clothes off."
"What?"
"You heard me." She was already dragging her tank top over her head, her tits bouncing free, and Larry's eyes went wide behind his glasses. She climbed onto the bed and shoved him flat, yanking his polo up, fumbling at his khaki belt with none of her usual patience. "Now, Larry. I mean it."
"Honey, you're being very aggressive, and I appreciate the initiative, but maybe some romance first, maybe some candles, I've read that foreplay duration correlates with..."
She kissed him to shut him up and reached into his boxers, and he was barely half hard and already she knew. She knew before her fingers closed around him that he wasn't going to fill her, that he was never going to fill her, that the thing waiting for her down the hall was twice this length and thicker than her wrist and had come five times today and was still more man than her husband had ever been. She didn't connect those dots. She couldn't. She just knew she was on fire and Larry was the only thing in the room.
"Naomi, you're so wet," Larry gasped, awed, as she rolled on top of him.
"Just shut up and be quick."
He was. He always was. He grunted through four minutes of earnest, misplaced thrusting, made his familiar strangled noise, and collapsed with a satisfied sigh while she lay beneath him staring at the ceiling, her body still humming, still empty, her thighs pressed together around an ache that nothing tonight had touched.
"You're welcome," Larry said smugly, rolling over. "I could tell you needed that. Prostate health and sexual frequency are strongly correlated in the literature, by the way. You should thank me."
"Good night, Larry."
She lay awake long after his snores started, her hand drifting down her stomach, remembering the weight of that sleeve in her grip and the heat gushing through the open end onto her skin. Four times tomorrow, she decided. Maybe five.
The boy needed his rest, after all.
A week changed everything.
It started with Ritchie's hands, still useless in their casts, learning a different kind of power. He didn't need fingers to give orders. "Take the shorts off, Mom." "Both hands this time." "Look at me while you do it." And Naomi, God help her, obeyed every word, her face pink, her thighs slick, coming back for more each time with less shame and more hunger.
The toy lasted three days before Ritchie asked, voice casual, "Why not just use your hand?" Her oiled fingers closed around his bare shaft that afternoon and she moaned before he even said a word. By Thursday he had her tits wrapped around him, her warm cleavage squeezing his cock while she licked the head on every upstroke. By Friday her mouth. By Saturday she was on her knees behind him in the bathroom, her tongue buried in his ass while she stroked him with both fists, and she loved it, she confessed it in a ragged whisper against his hole, she loved every filthy thing he made her do.
Sunday he finally fucked her. She came so hard she sobbed into his pillow, legs shaking around her son's back, and afterward she lay there purring, "My boy. My beautiful boy."
Monday she drank his piss in the shower because he told her to. Tuesday she snorted a line of his cum off the mirror because he laughed and dared her. Wednesday she sucked him off under the kitchen table while Larry sat six feet away eating a sandwich, talking about his conference, and Ritchie held his father's eyes over the table and smiled.
Thursday afternoon, with Larry at the clinic, Ritchie lay back on his bed while his mother tongued his asshole like it was communion, both hands pumping his shaft.
"Mom. Stop a second. I want to talk."
She lifted her face, lips shiny, dazed. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No. You're perfect." He sat up as much as he could. "I want to be the man of the house."
Her green eyes went wide. "Honey..."
"When I take your ass. Your virgin ass. I want Dad to watch. I want him to see who owns you now."
Naomi should have said no. She opened her mouth to say no. What came out instead was, "Okay. Whatever you want, baby. Anything." Then, after a breath, a strange little laugh. "You know, he'd probably be into it."
"What?"
"A few years ago I found a folder on his laptop. Hundreds of videos. All of them, mother-son stuff. Incest porn. He thinks I never saw it." She bit her lip. "I never said anything because it was kind of... hot. That he was jerking off to moms and sons while he couldn't even make me come."
Ritchie grinned, slow and wicked. "Then we tell him. We plan it."
They spent four days preparing her. A slim plug first, worn around the house under her shorts, even across from Larry at dinner while Ritchie watched her squirm. Then a larger one, then a longer one, Ritchie working lube into her with his uncanny patience, talking her through it in that calm young voice that made her drip. Finally, Friday night, she'd taken the full eight-inch training dildo to the base without flinching.
Saturday morning she caught Larry in the kitchen, coffee in hand, and blurted it out before her nerve died.
"Larry. I had an affair."
He set the mug down slowly. "An affair."
"With Ritchie."
The silence stretched. Ritchie stood in the hallway listening, heart hammering.
Then Larry pushed his glasses up and his ears went red, and his voice came out strange and thick. "You're... tell me everything. Wait, no, first. Is it still happening?"
"Yes," Naomi said, feigning shock at what happened next.
"God." Larry exhaled like a man unburdened. "Honey, I have to be honest with you. I've been... this has been a thing for me, my whole life. Fantasies. Mom stuff. I never told anyone." He stepped closer. "I want in. I want to be part of it. A threesome. Please."
Naomi let her surprise play across her face. "You want to... with our son?"
"Tonight. Both of you." Larry was already hard, she could see it against his khakis, and something smug flickered behind his glasses. "Trust me, he's going to learn a few things from his old man."
Naomi had to turn toward the sink to hide her smile.
That night, the master bedroom. Larry sat on the edge of the bed in his boxers, nervous and erect. Naomi knelt on the carpet between her husband and her son, wearing nothing but a black lace bra, Ritchie's hand resting possessively on the back of her neck.
"Let's see what we're working with," she purred, and pulled Larry's boxers down.
His cock sprang out, red and earnest, maybe five and a half inches and not thick. Larry puffed his chest. "Yeah, you remember it."
"Mm." Naomi turned to her son. She tugged the waistband of his shorts down.
Ritchie's cock, fully erect, swung free and flopped upward onto her upturned face, the heavy shaft lying across her eyes, the fat head resting in her hair. She didn't move it. She smiled up at them with the head covering both her eyes, a slow devilish smile, and let it sit there while Larry stared.
Larry stared. His smile died a slow death.
"That's not... he can't..." Larry measured his own cock against the monster across his wife's face with his eyes, twice, three times. "That's impossible. Nobody's that big."
Naomi finally lifted her son's cock off her face and held it up beside her husband's, both in her grip, one hand each. "Let's compare," she said sweetly. She stroked them both, and her voice turned wicked. "Look at that. Larry, sweetie, you're not even reaching halfway down his shaft. Look at your little cock next to your son's big beautiful one."
"Little?" Larry's voice cracked.
She reached into the nightstand drawer and produced a wooden ruler. "Doctor's orders." She pressed it along Ritchie's length. "Eleven inches. Hmm, almost eleven and a quarter today." She laid it against Larry. "Five and a half. That's actually below average, honey. I always thought... well. I always faked it, so."
She laid Larry's cock flat against Ritchie's. It didn't reach the midpoint of her son's shaft. The difference in girth was even more obscene. Larry's whole cock fit inside the shadow of Ritchie's.
"Stop it," Larry muttered, his face gray. "That's enough."
"Is it? Your son's cock is twice yours, Larry. Twice. And thicker than my wrist." She spat on Ritchie's head and slurped it back into her mouth, and Larry's hand had found his own cock without him deciding to, jerking it slowly, tiny in his fist, watching his wife swallow what he never could.
She stopped paying attention to him after that. Her husband could stroke himself; her mouth had better work to do. She worshipped. She licked down the underside of Ritchie's shaft to his balls and took each one into her mouth, heavy and full, humming around them, moaning about how big they were, how much cum they made for her. Ritchie kept his hand in her hair, guiding her, patient and commanding.
"Titfuck me, Mom."
She released his cock with a wet pop, unclasped her bra, and gathered her huge tits around him, oiling them first. His cock disappeared between them, the head surging up to smack her chin on every stroke. She drooled down her own cleavage and worked him with her chest, looking up at him with pure adoration.
"Your cock is perfect, baby. Mommy's tits exist for this."
Larry came for the first time standing there, a thin gasp and a modest spray into his own hand. Nobody acknowledged it. He went to the chair in the corner, as if summoned by his own irrelevance, and kept going.
Ritchie caught her eye and nodded.
Naomi rose, turned, and reached back with both hands. From her asshole she slowly drew out what Larry had assumed all evening was a plug. It kept coming. Eight inches of dark silicone, slick and shining, and her puckered ring stayed open around nothing, stretched and used.
"That's a plug?" Larry's voice was faint.
"It's been training Mommy's ass for your son's cock all week," she said, looking back over her shoulder at her husband. "And you're going to watch me give my anal virginity to it. To him. Right now."
She climbed onto the bed and straddled Ritchie, facing away, angled so Larry in his chair had the full view. She reached down to hold her son's cock upright against her hole. The fat head pressed against her lubed, stretched pucker, and she began to sink.
"Oh. Oh my God. Oh, Ritchie."
The crown popped past her ring and she cried out, a raw sound Larry had never heard from her in nineteen years. She took him inch by inch, trembling, moaning without pause, her fingers digging into her own thighs. It felt like being split open and filled to the lungs. Nothing in her life had felt like this. Nothing ever would again.
"Take your time," Ritchie murmured, and bent forward to close his mouth around her nipple, sucking her tit while his cock buried itself deeper into her ass.
Finally her hips met his thighs. All eleven inches, seated inside his mother's virgin ass.
"Look at me, Mom. Who's the man of the house?"
"You are," she sobbed. "You, baby. You're the man of the house. You own this ass. You own Mommy."
She began to ride. Slow rolls at first, then long bounces, and every upstroke revealed her gaping hole trying to close around the girth before she dropped back down and stuffed herself again. She reached back and spread her cheeks wide for Larry, showing him the obscene pink ruin of her asshole stretched around their son's shaft.
"Look, Larry. Look what a real cock does."
She rode faster. Her tits swung. Ritchie's fingers dug into her hips, guiding her pace, and his voice stayed maddeningly even. "That's it. Take it. You've been begging for this all week."
"I have! I'm such a slut for you! Mommy's an anal whore for her own son!"
In the chair, Larry came a second time, then a third, weak and shivering, barely half hard between rounds, while his wife screamed through orgasm after orgasm on their son's cock. Each time Ritchie had not even begun to approach his release. He just kept thrusting, relentless, fresh as morning.
Naomi collapsed back against her son's chest, legs shaking, grinding her hips in circles. "Cum in my ass, baby. Please. Please fill Mommy's ass. I need it. I need your load in my guts, I've needed it my whole life."
"Ask nicer."
"Please, sir. Please cum in my ass. Your mother's ass belongs to you. Breed it. Mark it. Please, please, please."
Ritchie gripped her hips and drove up hard, and erupted. He pumped her deep, load after hot load flooding her bowels, so much that it had nowhere to go, and she wailed through her biggest orgasm yet as her son's cum filled her to the brim. He kept throbbing. She could feel every pulse.
When he finally softened enough, she rose off him with a long shuddering groan. Her asshole yawned open behind her, a huge dark gape, and his thick white cum welled up from inside her and began to run down her thighs in slow ropes.
She turned on the bed, spread her cheeks with both hands, and presented it all to her husband.
"Look what your son did, Larry," she said, sweet and ruined. "Eleven inches. In my ass. My virgin ass. And you're going to watch me leak his cum for the rest of the night."
Larry, spent and hollow-eyed in his chair, couldn't look away.