Covid Kills.

That was the word out on the street. I wasn’t exactly Out On the Street; I was a sophomore at a reasonably reputable college when this brutally bunk pandemic began.

“They’re cancelling NBA basketball? What the fuck, man?”

I knew it wouldn’t be long before my mother called me home at that point. All the work I’d put into studies that semester would get shelved and - the world would fall over. Well, I hadn’t quite anticipated the world part but shelving the personal progression I was in was individually tragic enough. In addition to my studies, I had a bit of a groove going on socially. I don’t know what category of “cool” I fall into but I’d been pretty honed in on academics and never made much room for socially farting around in years prior. Wasn’t until a few months into college I realised there WAS room for the farting around part. Or rather, fucking around. In college, we fuck around. In high school, you fart.

I had some pretty good options on my phone to Fuck around with now. And the other thing about college? We’re a bunch of horny young adults. Like bunnies in a bush.

“I need you to come home right now. They’re sending us all home from work. I’m sending mySELF home from work,” my mom would call and demand as anticipated.

“But…” I tried to protest.

“Trust me. The call will come down from your own administration in a handful of days from now but by then you might already have the bug. Get out of there now. I have your flight information ready. Grab a pen.”

My mom isn’t one to mince words. She’s the on-the-ball type. And you have to admire it. A single mother has got to be assertive that way, doing the work of two. She is as meticulous as she is practical.

“Well, how long is this gonna last?” I asked, with honest concerns beyond my own freedom.

“As long as it takes,” she replied. “This isn’t the kind of thing we can control the way we think we’d like to. It’s a heathen. Come home.”

Home? I mean, to be fair, that’s not really my home anymore.

Which doesn’t mean I hated it. Just. Well. I’d moved on from there. My mother and me had a real good relationship. I gave good effort towards being a team. Pick up the slack at home while she was out there makin’ bacon. But. I liked being out on my own. I liked having options on my phone. I liked being a bit of a bunny. I mean, what was I gonna do with my cock for several weeks if this thing went on the way she was saying? That could be a problem.

+++

She squeezed me tight right away.

As if I’d been gone for twenty years.

Which wasn’t all that different from any other time I’d return home but there was most definitely a little more urgency in this one. Thing about that is, my mother is also very busty. Dare I call them enormous (you wouldn’t; you might just call them cannonballs. But from where I stand they’ve always been as large or bigger than my head so I can go as far as enormous). So when she was smashing me up against her pair, forgive me for being reminded I’m not gonna have my hands on any of those for some unknown quantity of time. Had a backpack of books with me, but no tits to offset my urges in between.

Bunk.

“When do we get tested?” was nearly the first thing out of my mouth. Kinda rude. But I’ll remind you I just got yanked out of an environment where that’s pretty much what it’s all about.

“Never mind that for now. Come inside with me. You’re home.”

As much as a taskmaster she is, and meticulous, she also likes to pamper me. Not too much but certainly not too little. We “palled” around at home a lot growing up. Popcorn nights and cartoons. Board games, cooking lessons, paint-on spot on top, teasing each other about dumb stories here and there. She’d ask me plenty about what interests me and there wasn’t any subject too adult (meaning, nothing she would imply was above my head or “impossible” for me to understand). When she’d tuck me in at night I’d end up like a mummy, no breathing room at all and I’d let her do that anyway cuz - you know, I loved her and she liked to. So, she’d suffocate me a little bit often enough but the rest of the time - when we were able to be together, she worked a lot - where I could breathe and be her little buddy, it was good.

She’d attempt to treat me as an equal in many ways but again, she’s the parent; I was the child and I knew that. So it wasn’t ever equal. It was Her. And me alongside for the ride. And therefore I was a bit of a loner within our own house.

Well, THAT was about to change.

I’d never been… I’m asking a lot of forgiveness here but… STUCK with her in the house this way. Sure, there might be an entire Saturday or a Sunday in the past. But both plus all five other days of the week? Nope. Never.

It was pretty unnerving.

She didn’t know my “new” ways all that well. Not quite able to make the adjustment that I’m my own Man now. I don’t need direction all the time. And I don’t need all that interference.

And I also don’t need those fucking tits bouncing around from morning until the clock runs out, peppering me for hours about what’s not available. She’s got a rack that dances around like that. She dresses rather classy but at home she likes to dress that down. Not exactly informal but… well, she’s not always wearing a bra. Or not the kind you would away from the home. I can’t be couped up in a house with her day after day and not notice that, “Hi, I’m a unicorn! I sometimes bounce from here to there like a honey bear. I’m a cookie jar! But - hands off cuz I’m also your MOMMY!! Be a good boy now.”

You want a little more background? She’s in her late thirties but you wouldn’t know it. Most think she could honestly pass for twenty-nine at times. If she’s a MILF (and she might be) then she’s the kind you could ask yourself, “But that’s not really someone’s mother, right?” And that worked against her when it came to parental functions. She had little to no time for unnecessary gatherings but when we had those instances you can’t miss, the whispering went on, “There’s that fucking harlot with the jumbotrons. Throwing them around again. I’m just trying to be a Mom here. Bitch.” Yeah, a fair amount of that. And the husbands of course would need a bib to keep their chins clean.

Thing about it is, I never saw her bring anyone home. So none of these perspectives on her were fair at all. She worked her ass off. Plain and simple.

Anyway, something close to two weeks had gone by and I hadn’t had a “release”. You know what I’m talking about. I couldn’t. Cornering myself in the bathroom again after all these years just felt ridiculous. I’d never had her in the house that much before. And yeah, I could have gone the shower route but - wouldn’t that be kinda obvious?

Another problem? I found out in college I kinda prefer to hear a lot of encouragement to enable myself properly these days. Like, audible agreement. You know what I’m getting at? I’d met a few sluts who really wrote the book on that and it just completely bamboozled me how I could ever stroke one off without oral accompaniment before. Brought that whole experience up from a 5 to 10 where explosive orgasms are concerned. And a 5 is being generous; I used to feel kinda humiliated having to handle things myself.

So, fair to say I really did not want to return to that. Here I am, back at home, and now I need to spank it? I’m just a dumb kid in a closet again? And I don’t even have a goddamned titty mag on hand. I’ve only got My Mother!! Who never leaves the house anymore! Yeah, that’s not great.

Boners.

Problematic boners began coming on.

Boners in pajamas. Boners in raggedy sweats. Boners in shorts. Boners under the table. Boners under your knuckled hand while trying to hide it. Boners morning, noon, and night.

Finally she just went ahead and addressed the obvious on me.

“Sweetheart? Can you not take care of that somehow?”

Boners while you’re bringing Mom the dishes after watching her waddle her busy morning ass around for a challenging fifteen minutes or so.

“Sure. I can do them. It’s just that you were already here. I’ll do them all. No problem.”

“No, I meant - well, that’s nice of you but no, I meant - that,” she delicately pointed down at the halfie I was sporting as some indiscriminately appropriate bubbles dribbled off her washing gloves and splat at the cold tile floor.

Boink.

Oh shit. What now?

“I don’t mean to be insensitive. I mean, I understand you’re stuck in here with me and that’s probably not a whole lot of fun day after day but. You know what to do about that. Right?”

Sure, Mom. I’ll get right on that. I’ll just head up to the toilet now and jack it off while you continue on as if nothing’s been noticed. Absolutely. Or, why not just whip it out right here in the kitchen since you’re being so bold as to point out my FUCKING FEAR!!

Like, I had no answer for her. I just stood there.

But my boner did not disappear.

Nope.

She’s got a huge rack on her. And it looks good somewhat wet with bubbles on top, no less. Homely apron worn or otherwise. It had been weeks now. And I could even see some skin.

“Honey? You do what you need to do. I won’t question it.”

Jesus christ. She can’t be that clueless.

I went back to the little round morning table and took a seat. Pretty much sank like when Jell-O pudding found out Bill Cosby is a serial rapist.

She watched me for a little before taking her gloves off and grabbing a seat alongside me. Like I said, clueless - couldn’t think to take the chair across the table? I’m still having a problem here.

And she identified that remained true, immediately.

“I’m sure you know how to handle that by now. I’m plenty more than confident of that, actually.”

You’re not helping this, Mother. Move away from the table, please.

But I still hadn’t uttered a word in response.

“What do I need to tell you to make it okay?”

See, this is the way she would smother me. Like it’s OCD or something. When the child shies away do not go after him. He’s troubled. Needs to work it out, process some shit. You can’t start heaping pancakes on top one after the other. I haven’t SPREAD the butter yet!!

Give it a moment to breathe!

“Teddy?”

That’s my name, by the way.

She let out a sigh. And then put her hand lightly on my leg.

What The Fuck?!!!

I leapt backwards.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I just…”

“Jesus christ, Mom! I’m weaponized right now!”

And she couldn’t even bother to not giggle at that.

“No kidding, mister. You’ve been that way for days now if not a week or more.”

I shot right back at her.

“No shit, Sherlock! I’m nineteen!!”

She giggled again, despite her attempts to calm me.

“I know. That’s what I’m saying. Go up there and take care of it. I’m not gonna sue you for slander.” Which is what she does for a living, by the way. Relatively small firm.

“I CAN’T!!” I yelled back. Well beyond annoyed and plenty angry instead.

She wouldn’t let up.

“What do you mean, 'you can’t'? It’s a relatively simple process. As I understand it.”

We were in the shit now. Viet-fuckin-nam.

“No. Actually it’s not at all.”

“Well, what’s so complicated about it? Enlighten me.”

“Oh my god… after all these years we’re gonna have this discussion now?”

And that might have stung her some. I didn’t mean to. But that wounded her.

“I’m sorry.” Her hands went into her lap. In a small little ball of apology. “You’re right of course. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you like other moms.”

Oh, fuck me. Now I’m gonna trip on guilt and not just my cock?

“Jesus, Mom.”

“No I really am. I’m sorry.”

I looked down at my dick and it somehow had not yet gone completely soft. And that did cause me some concern. Maybe there’s something wrong with me greater than any other average person in this hellish scenario.

I sat back down. Fuck it, let it warble around in my loose basketball trunks. Nuthin' can be done.

And that confused her.

She almost thought to touch my leg again. The pampering thing, she can’t control it at times. But her hand held back and I noticed that. Good effort.

“Talk to me honestly. What’s the trouble?”

As I said before we were always open this way with each other. Not on THIS sort of topic but she would treat my concerns as if I were an adult. And I’d actually advanced enough to know how that benefitted me greatly. So I opened up.

“I met this girl.”

“Okay,” was all she said in response. Offering me an avenue and confirming her interested ear.

“She talks a certain way.”

Quizzical eyes.

“She talks dirty to me when we do it.”

“Oh!” She was somehow oddly delighted by that. Maybe just my honesty perhaps?

“So,” I continued. “I’ve kind of grown dependent on that.”

“Yes?” she asked as if not knowing why that’s a problem.

“Like. Dependent enough that I can’t… like… really… get off,” I had to pause, “… without it.”

She took a moment. I was clearly being honest.

“You haven’t had a wet dream in the last few weeks?”

I was surprised she even knew how that worked. Like, when you wake up and realise you hadn’t just blown your wad in a dream but actually made a mess within the sheets, instead of some or several sets of tits.

“Well… yeah,” again I had to pause. “A time or two.”

“Okay. And that’s not enough to keep you. I mean. To… calm things down?”

I laughed. Wholeheartedly.

“I don’t think you know how this works, Mom.” I looked over at her for the first time since I’d sat back down. Ooops. Boobs. When I caught her eyes she tried not to show me that she noticed me notice. Which was good of her. Instead, well rather than even sharing a pensive look of concern it was more like a smirk.

“Try me,” she offered.

I could only shake my head side to side in minor defeat.

She reached out once more and lightly set her hand to my leg, a relatively fair distance away from the source of concern (which was on the other side from her), though I swear it wasn’t unintentional this time. Very much aware. “This is good. We’re having a true conversation again. You’re a man now. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Then she brought her hand back to herself and smiled. You know, that way only a mother can and drops all your defenses… 

“I’m horny nearly all the time,” I told her simply.

“Okay, we’ve established that. No problem,” she smiled again. Harmlessly.

I wanted to tell her everything about all my perversions that might absolutely disgust her on every level but I’m a relatively responsible fellow and knew better than to spill my cards all over the table.

“I get horny too, you know,” she added. “Not all the time but sometimes.”

Her smile continued. But I did not exactly want to hear that. One person at a time, eh.

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

She recognized that.

“This girl… Sophia,” I began again.

“Uh-huh, tell me about her. Your girlfriend.”

“I really don’t wanna go on and tell you about her. Except to say,” and I kind of lied in that I didn’t tell her that Sophia was NOT my girlfriend. She’s a fuck buddy and nothing more. I didn’t realize it would bother me in coming days that I hadn’t disputed or clarified that part. “… she knows what to say to me. When I’m horny.”

“Oh yes. Do tell.”

Again she almost seemed to light up at that concept. Which really had me upside down some.

“She’s a naughty girl?” she giggled. I mean, she’d almost shaved twenty years off her life the way her eyes sparkled and her mouth curled sideways while she smiled at me. Tee hee.

I looked at her beautiful tits again. Damnitt!

Didn’t check for her reaction that time. Looked away across the table. Pretending to focus on my thoughts, beyond what I’d just looked at.

“She’s very encouraging,” I continued once more.

“Uh-huh,” she was pleased to hear.

“So. That’s how I need it now.”

And I stopped.

“That’s it?”

I was a little annoyed at how trivial she made that sound.

“Uh, that’s why I’m having a significant PROBLEM here, yes. And it hurts. If you must know.”

She thought quietly for a moment. I didn’t wanna look her way and catch another faceful of titties so I held my gaze across the table. And it DID hurt. It was throbbing. And I felt like a sick and twisted peon the way weeks' worth of visions of her boobs racing up towards my face were pretty much all I could see besides an empty kitchen. Fuck this quarantine, man. My brain is melting.

“What can I do about it?”

What. The?!

“Jesus christ, what the fuck?”

Cussing is allowed in our house. We just didn’t use it that often. Lord's name in vain? No worries.

“No, really. I mean, do I need to go get some smut magazines? You wanna watch a porn?”

Aw shit, man. For some reason just hearing the words “smut” and “porn” come out of her mouth gave me an additional rise. It literally LEAPT upward. There wasn’t any not seeing that happen. Kicked at the flap in my shorts. Good god.

She got up to grab...