“Mommy?”

“Hmm. Yes, Muffin?”

“I have a stiffy.” 

“You always have a stiffy, Muffin.” I couldn’t focus on the alarm clock. “What time is it, Michael?” 

“I dunno.” 

The digits got less fuzzy when I squinted—4:12. “You couldn't wait? We have to get up soon anyway to go to work.” 

“It's really stiff,” he whined. 

I sighed. How could I say no, especially after all of the time, the years, that I had devoted to getting us here? “Okay, Muffin. Lick Mommy wet first and clean up when you're done.” His little smile registered before my lids floated down, making it worth it. Michael spit between my butt cheeks and licked. Like any boy, he did the bare minimum but that was fine, I was too sleepy to care. 

“Muffin? If Mommy falls back asleep, remember she loves you.” I would never, though. 

“I wuf oo too mummy.” Michael climbed on my back and pricked my butthole with his unremarkable penis. I looked over my shoulder and watched his tushy flutter like hummingbird wings. He huff-huff-huffed like he does when he's close to cumming, and then let loose with a tenor moan. A few seconds afterward, he rolled to his side of the bed. 

“I said to clean up, Muffin.” My boy giggled, busted, and lapped his seedy gift out of my ass. “It’s your turn to make the coffee when we get up, Michael.” 

~~~ 

The coffee was good. I paused to straighten Michael’s tie as we rushed past each other, making up for the time we lost when we overslept. None of the other supervisors wore ties but Michael needed its help to bolster his authority. He was only twenty-three and slight in build and stature. A beard might have helped but I had that ugly thing burned away years ago. 

We lived two lives. His life as a grown-up was make-believe. In real life, he was my boy. 

I was ashamed of my feelings for Michael, my boarder of almost five years, the boy next door whom I had cared for. I was ten when he was born, and by the time I was twelve, I often looked after him when his parents wanted to be away or wanted him to be away. His mother was a bit of a cold fish, as they say, and his father, well, there’s no other way to put this: he was an asshole. 

When my mommy and daddy moved, I bought the house that I grew up in. I quickly took Michael in when his parents kicked him out right after he graduated from high school. I didn’t expect to be so excited when he moved in, as if it was meant to be. 

I think that he was happier too. He wasn't expected to be an adult all the time and he loved that I always had a juice box ready for him, the same ones that he liked when he was littler. 

I gave him my old bedroom right next to my parents’ room, which I had taken, and set up a playroom for him in the basement where he could set up his model trains. 

One night during that first week, on my way to the bathroom, I heard an almost inaudible moan. Peeking in Michael’s room, I caught him with his back arched and a handful of tissues in his crotch. I ducked away, finished my business, and returned to my bed. 

Most of my dolls were in storage but a few special ones were nearby, including a life-size baby doll with its mouth forever parted for its bottle. I lifted one of my generous breasts and fed her my plump nipple. We rocked as we thought about what I saw. 

Boys are so messy. Boys masturbate and there aren’t many ways to stop that. At least he had tissues and I could check what he did with those later. I had not considered that when I invited him to live here—not that I should have. 

The following night, I listened from the hallway, just in case. I heard him quietly sobbing then and hesitated for only a second before knocking and letting myself in. “Michael, is everything alright?” 

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry, it’s nothing.” 

It was obviously something. I sat next to him and stroked his hair. “You didn’t wake me. I don’t like seeing you sad.” 

He told me that he was scared about what he'd be doing now that he was out of school. 

Scooching up a little, I laid his head on my lap and looked down into his eyes. I told him not to be scared, and lowered my gown’s straps, cradling his head and feeding him a teat. “Hush, now; take my breast. That's right.” I told him we'd figure things out together and rocked my boy to sleep. 

I had never comforted anyone like that, not really. My maternal instincts had been aroused and I liked them. I wasn’t actually his mother. I was his friend, the kind of friend who rarely thought of him as a boy and was more than capable of ignoring the outline of his penis, draped by insubstantial bedclothes. 

I ignored it then, I did, but thought of it later as I lay staring at the ceiling. My hand had wandered unbidden under my panties. Of course, my boy had a penis. A fine young man such as himself must have a fine one, I imagined. 

Might he touch it while thinking of my pussy? Why wouldn’t he, a boy think of a woman? I wasn’t his mother, although I could be. 

Masturbating belied my maternal instincts. My fingers and psyche loved him differently but they loved him equally. I am a woman; I ought to be his mother! I had no choice but to imagine my boy’s cock ramming his mommy’s wicked cunt. 

I felt a connection. He would play with himself; I was sure of it. He would play and think of me as a woman and as a mother; there was no reason I couldn’t be both for him. He wanted to fuck his mommy as badly as I wanted to fuck my son. Oh, God, I admitted it! I was sick in the head but unburdened because I was finally honest with myself.  

My wrist hurt by the time I finished. I had another. 

All that I wanted afterwards was to make him dependent on me. I was ten years older; I knew things. I knew better. “Shh, my boy. Let the grown-ups worry about that,” I’d say. What I hadn’t expected was that as I got older, he refused to age himself—mightily and disturbingly. He embraced his juvenile role, exaggerated and enriched it. 

Michael somehow sensed the sordidness of my soul and stroked it. I didn’t know his soul no matter how much I loved him; my heart cared but my cunt didn’t. All I knew was that I wanted my little boy and Michael handed himself to me. 

~~~ 

We accomplished so much during that first, uncommonly heated summer—only three short months but long enough to set the groundwork to guide and mother him. 

Without air conditioning, I was persistently, casually underdressed and undressed, and encouraged Michael to do the same. 

“I feel weird about this, Pauline, being naked in front of each other.” 

“Let your inner child out, Michael! You must have loved to run around bare-assed when you were little. Everybody did. My family did it all the time,” I lied. "I’m surprised that your family didn’t.” His penis was as pretty as I had imagined. It wasn’t brutish or intrusive, even when it stood up, as thin and slight as Michael himself. 

He was embarrassed at first when it arose but I’d tease it with a tug as if it was nothing. “Let’s call it your ‘pee-pee,’ okay? That’s such a fun word, isn’t it? Say it with me. Come on…” 

He giggled. “Pee-pee.” 

I gave it another playful pull. “See?” I memorized all of his pee-pee's moods: shy, bold, high, low, chubby, stubby.  

Michael and I played nude in our backyard, running under the sprinkler and skimming along the Slip-n-Slide. My breasts were not built for running and jumping but I endured for my boy. 

I looked after his delicate skin with tubes and tubes of the best, highest SPF sunscreen to keep him as white as winter. “Stand still! We don’t want your pee-pee to get burned.”  

He applied lotion on me as well—the store brand (mommies made sacrifices). 

“Gee, Pauline, I’m using more lotion on your chest than you used on my entire body.” 

“Boobies.” 

“Huh?” 

“Boobies. Call them boobies.” 

Later, we showered together afterwards to remove the sweat and lotion. 

“Your pee-pee always seems excited,” I mentioned, indifferently. Michael was cute, still sheepish about his penis. 

“I’m sorry, Pauline. I can't help it.” 

“You never have to apologize to me for anything, ever, Muffin.” I meant that, too. If he ever felt like he had to hide anything from me, I would never get the chance to correct it. Ours was a very open relationship unless I needed to protect him. His safety always came first. 

I turned him from me, pressed my boobies against his shoulders, and reached around. He stuttered and muttered something as I jerked him. I thrust my hips behind him and his body matched my rhythm until he stiffened and unstiffened, discharging his unwholesome man-cream. 

Copious amounts of body wash removed the evidence. His limp pee-pee shyly intermingled with my fingers, clean, inside and out. Showering together, never alone, became the norm after time. 

I was “Aunt Pauline” by the end of the summer and “Mommy” by the end of the year. That was when we moved his toys out of the basement to his bedroom cum playroom and we moved him into my bed. 

Just because he shared my bed didn't mean we had sex. He wasn't ready yet.  

Michael had never been a man to a girl, I was sure of it. I, myself, only had insignificant lovers: minor ones and friends of the family who were more interested in fathering me than they were in my nurturing nature. I was grateful for them only because I learned right from wrong—right ways from wrong ways. 

I decided that it was my purpose to teach Michael. After all, a mother’s job is to help her boy grow up when he’s ready. A mother’s job is to know when he’s ready. He would stay seventeen as long as it takes. And he would wait as long as I take. 

~~~ 

Our bodies were never off limits to each other; self-discipline was for grown-ups. We were watching television, sitting on the loveseat, when my muffin hiked my skirt up and poked around my panties. 

“Can I help you?” 

“I wanna see your pussy up close.” 

“Manners…” 

“May I see your pussy up close, please?” 

I told him he may as I stripped my white cotton briefs. He pet and gently tugged the tuft above my sex, then traced a finger along and around my exposed labia. 

“How come you have hair here?” 

“Grown-ups have hair between their legs.” 

“Why?” 

“They just do.” 

“I don’t.” 

“That’s right. Boys don’t need any, and when they get some anyway, mommies take them to a doctor to make it go away.” 

Michael smiled at that while wiggling his finger between my pussy lips. “This is where the pee-pee goes when people fuck, huh?” 

The things they pick up at school. “That's right, Muffin.” He pushed a little too hard so I slapped his hand. “Easy!” 

“Sorry.” 

“That's okay. Come here, down here. Take a deep breath. Like it?” My boy nodded enthusiastically. I told him to go slowly, tenderly. “Lick your finger; get it wet. Lick Mommy’s pussy.” I thought I was in control until a low moan escaped. My boy was a natural. 

“Use your finger, your tongue, your mouth—oh, God! Don't let Mommy make a mess, Baby. Keep going, keep going, don't let Mommy make a mess…” He didn't. My cunt screamed into his mouth and he drank faster from me than he had from any juice box. 

“I like pussy juice a lot, Mommy!” 

He clumsily pulled my dress over my head, singing, “Mommy’s getting naked, Mommy’s getting naked,” as I recovered. 

He took his clothes off so I sang to him as well. He kneeled at my side with his stiffy bounding free. I sighed as he latched onto a booby and I replaced his hand on his stiffy with mine. 

“Put your finger in Mommy’s pussy, Muffin. Ooh, suck harder, put another finger in. It’s a lot easier this time, isn't it?” I lifted my booby to be sure his mouth held it securely. I wished that I had milk for him, my boy.  

I kneaded and squeezed his stiffy and naked balls while my depraved cunt kneaded and squeezed his fingers—only two. They were small. “Three fingers, Muffin.” His pee-pee telegraphed its intentions and I readily captured every drop—no messes, right? I made sure to lick my palm clean. 

Once Michael's pee-pee was properly petered, I could relax and enjoy my boy’s mouth on my tit, his fingers in my twat, and his tongue on my clit. Could it get better than that? 

I pressed my boy’s thumb against his palm in mid-stroke and shoved his entire effeminate hand into my cunt. Yes. Better! Grasping his wrist with both hands, I bemoaned my depravity as I fucked myself with my darling Muffin’s arm.  

“M-m-mommy!” 

“Bite Mommy’s nipple, Baby!” 

He did as he was told until I screamed, “Oh, God” throughout my ungodly orgasm. 

As I recovered from my collapse, Michael was crying, watching me, and glancing at his amputated arm. 

“Did I hurt you, Mommy?” 

“Oh, Muffin, no!” I assured him. “You made Mommy feel really, really good!” He slowly retrieved his hand and we cleaned it together—no messes! 

~~~ 

“Do you know what I like best in the whole world, Mommy? I like your boobies best! I like looking at them and I like rubbing my pee-pee on them but I really, really, really like sucking them the best” 

And I liked having them sucked. Every night, without fail, when I tucked Michael into bed, he suckled. Sometimes I’d soothe him like that when he had a bad day at work or a good day, but bedtime booby-time was when we really bonded as mother and son. After he settled in, I usually got myself a nightcap before joining him. Grown-ups always go to bed after their children, don’t they? 

Actually nursing Michael, feeding him with my body would have been wonderful. My dreams and daydreams were half-filled with milk. Imagine my surprise and joy when I discovered that using my breasts the way God intended would be easy and was, in fact, common. I started the preparations as soon as I could. 

~~~ 

“What’s fucking like, Mommy? Does it feel good? How does the pee-pee fit?” So many questions from my Muffin! I thought a lot about it too and was determined to take his virginity when he was ready. We hadn’t kissed as lovers kiss and he never asked about that—such a taboo, mother and son kissing! 

We found plenty of other ways to play with his stiffies. Titty-fucks were, of course, a favorite. I’d squeeze my boobies together and pinch my nipples while he rubbed his willy silly between them. Fellatio was reserved for rewards. Sucking Michael’s pee-pee was one of the few times that I’d clean up afterward instead of him. His cum was always so sweet and warm, like honey. 

Humping my ass-cheeks was a regular thing and sticking his thing in Mommy’s pretty brown star was enjoyable for both of us, even though I never told him that I liked it (so dirty). 

“Mommy, I wish you had a pee-pee,” Michael surprised me one day. 

“Why is that, Muffin?” 

“So that you could put it in my behind.” 

I thought that was a darling thing to say. “Sorry, Muffin, but let’s see what we can do about that.” 

Michael fetched the lube and straddled me as I sat on the floor. His stiffy was inches from my face as I worked a finger into his tush. His pee-pee dipped and rose in time with the prostate massage I gave him. I licked his copious pre-cum as it streamed out of him. 

“Mommy, that feels weird. It feels good, too.”  

His not-so-stiffy wobbled right before his cum oozed out. His massage was over and I plunged my finger in and out of his tush and took his pee-pee and balls into my mouth. He stiffened up right away and soon came long and hard into my mouth. 

“Wow!” 

“You liked that, Muffin?” 

“Uh-huh! Is that what it feels like for you?” 

“No, Muffin, it’s very different. I’m glad you liked it. Maybe we’ll do it again sometime if you’re good.” I had to buy him some proper toys for him to play with—I had to remove too many household things from his tush. 

~~~ 

My therapy was going well and small amounts were being expressed while using my breast pumps. One night soon, my boy would get his long-overdue taste of mommy’s milk. I washed down a handful of supplements with cow’s milk, thinking about what he just said to me. 

“I love you, Mommy. I hope you’re my mommy forever and ever.” 

“Me too, Muffin, me too,” I said, quickly leaving so that he wouldn’t see my tears. As much as any mother would hate to admit, the time had come for me to take my baby’s virginity and I prayed that I wouldn't make a man out of him. 

Saturday morning, I fixed him chocolate-chip pancakes with mouse ears. We went out later to run errands and shop. I’m sure people thought we were a couple since I was holding his hand but truthfully, I was keeping him from wandering off or filling our cart with cookies.  

Michael played while I fixed dinner: chicken nuggets, sliced cucumbers, and fresh raspberries. He asked “why” when I told him to pick something nice to wear for dinner; I sidestepped and told him to hurry. He was thrilled when I popped the plastic cork and poured us some sparkling cider. 

Afterward, I handed him a gift-wrapped box and told him to open it in the playroom. 

“What's in it, Mommy?” 

“You'll find out. Now, scoot!” 

I scooted, myself, to our bedroom. There, I donned a white, floor-length nightgown with a deep scoop neck and pink lace trim. I got all the candles lit just before I heard a gentle rap. 

“Come in, Muffin.”  

My beautiful boy stepped inside wearing a similar gown with baby-blue eyelet trim and a narrow, laced ‘V’ neck. The light shone through from behind. 

“Mommy? Mommy!” 

I took Michael’s hand and spun underneath, fell against him and we swayed to nondescript dance music. I pressed his head to my bosom and shushed him before he could think of what to say. “Michael, do you know what ‘making love’ is?” 

“Uh-huh. It’s the same as fucking.” 

“That’s right, Muffin.” I felt that clarifying would ruin the moment. We wordlessly slow-danced some more (we should do that more often) before I asked, “Would you like to make love now, Muffin?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

I gracefully pulled my gown over my head, leaving me naked for my boy as I had been countless times before. Michael needed a second before he did the same—with a little less grace. I led him to the bed and lay on my back with my legs spread wide. He jumped on and tried to ram himself into me. 

“Muffin, wait! You need to lick Mommy and use your fingers to get her wet, first! I’ll tell you when.” 

“Goody! I like licking your pussy!” My boy’s mouth knows its way around a cunt and I was happy to let him go longer than was necessary. Maybe, just maybe I was worried about taking this big step with my little man. 

“Okay, Muffin, Mommy’s pussy is ready for your pee-pee—slowly.” 

Michael was shaking a little as his pee-pee was swallowed by my puss-puss. This wasn’t make-believe and, on some level, I’m sure he appreciated that. 

“Oh, Mommy, I like fucking!” 

Of course, he did. “I like it too, Muffin.” 

“There’s more room than your butthole; I like this better.” 

Out of the mouth of babes… 

“Fuck Mommy hard, Baby. Don't stop until your stiffy shoots and leaves.”  

“I’m cumming, Mommy!” 

“I feel it, Baby!” 

“I never want to stop!” He didn’t. His humping continued until his blue balls were blanched a second time. He almost made me cum, almost, but that’s okay. Mommy didn’t do this for herself. 

“Clean-up!” he whooped. What a good Muffin, cleaning up after himself, cleaning himself out of Mommy’s muff without being told. Mommy got hers after all. 

~~~ 

Having no eyes of their own, my breasts must have believed they were feeding dozens of boys. I nursed my Muffin every morning, when he came home in the afternoon, every evening, and every night. I couldn’t hear his voice without leaking. I couldn't see his stiffy without leaking. 

I was ultimately the ultimate mommy. 

Our bedtime routine was always very special to Michael and me. God had granted me the most maternal of breasts which he suckled to our mutual contentment. Milk was drawn from my body, nourishing his body and my soul. 

His stiffy beat against his belly and we both knew it was about to make a puddle. Every night it made a puddle. “Oh, Mommy,” he succumbed and sucked more excitedly as spurt after spurt of manly ejaculate took flight. 

He stood up for me to put his jammies on afterward and I licked the mess from his belly and pee-pee when I pulled his bottoms up. I gave him a playful swat on his cute tush after we got his top on, and I tucked him in. We said our ‘good nights’ and ‘I-love-yous' and gave each other cheek kisses; he was asleep before I turned the lights out.