Mom helps me masturbate

I’m a badminton player, my body lean and chiseled from years of owning the court, living in a quiet house with just my mom while my dad’s off working in the city. She’s a homemaker, her figure a perfect hourglass—full, heavy breasts, a slim waist, curves that could make the air hum with heat. I’d been hooked on taboo stories online, the kind that rewire your brain, turning every glimpse of her—bending over, stretching in a tight top—into a spark of raw desire.

One humid afternoon, fate dealt me a wild card. Her bathroom was busted, so she used mine upstairs, door half-open, water hissing. I walked in, and there she was—stark naked, skin slick with steam, her breasts round and perfect, a dark patch between her thighs. My heart slammed against my ribs. I drank in the sight, then bolted to the living room before she could catch me. That image burned into my skull. That night, I scoured the web for ways to make my obsession real. One idea stuck: fake a problem, something intimate, and pull her in.

The next day, while she lounged in front of the TV, I set the stage. I showered, slicked my cock with oil to make it gleam, and worked myself up until it stood rigid. Towel barely clinging to my hips, I stepped into her room, voice tight with staged urgency. “Mom, I need you!” She hurried over, concern in her eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asked, soft but sharp. I turned, letting the towel slip to reveal the bulge. “It… it hurts here,” I said, pointing low. Her eyes widened, a hand covering her mouth as she stared at the tent. “What happened?” she asked, voice trembling. I shrugged, playing helpless. “I don’t know, it’s just… stuck like this.” She hesitated, her gaze lingering, a flicker of curiosity behind her shock. “Maybe… try relieving it yourself,” she said, voice softer. I looked down, faking shame. “I tried. It’s not working. Could you… help?” Her eyes darted away, lips parting as her breath caught. She sank onto the couch, hands twisting in her lap. After a long pause, she nodded. “Okay… let’s try,” she whispered, her voice laced with duty and intrigue. I was halfway to paradise.

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She led me to the bathroom, her hands unsteady as she eased off my towel. My cock sprang free, throbbing. She grabbed a bottle of oil, poured some into her palm, and wrapped her fingers around me. Her touch was tentative, stroking slowly, her eyes fixed on her hand. She paused, her breath hitching, a faint flush creeping up her neck. She glanced up at me, eyes searching, then leaned in with more intent, her strokes firmer, like she’d caught herself enjoying it. The sensation was electric, her warm hand gliding with purpose. After a few minutes, I groaned, unloading a thick stream into the sink. She wiped her hands, her gaze lingering on my body, a mix of conflict and curiosity in her eyes. “Rest now,” she said, voice low, before leaving. I was buzzing with victory.

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The next evening, during a movie night on the living room couch, I pushed it further. Fresh from a shower, towel low on my hips, I sat close, the TV flickering. “It’s back,” I muttered, shifting to show the bulge. She glanced over, her eyes lingering longer than before. “Again?” she asked, a playful edge to her tone, though her fingers twitched nervously. I nodded, dropping the towel. She hesitated, her gaze flicking over me, then grabbed the lotion from the coffee table. Her fingertips danced along my length, teasing, testing my reactions. “You’re making this a habit, aren’t you?” she said, a smirk tugging at her lips. A few minutes in, she paused, flexing her hands. “My fingers are hurting,” she said, wincing slightly. I leaned in, voice low. “What if… you used your feet instead?” Her eyes widened, a mix of surprise and intrigue. She hesitated, then shifted, resting her bare feet in my lap. Her toes curled around me, tentative at first, then firmer, stroking with a slow, curious rhythm. “Like this?” she asked, her voice teasing but her eyes locked on mine, searching. I groaned, nodding, and when I came, she let the mess spill over her feet, her breath quickening, a faint smile betraying her thrill.

Over the next week, it became routine, each setting different, her approach shifting. One morning in the bathroom, I stood in just a towel, hard again, and called her in. She grabbed the oil, her grip firm, stroking with steady confidence, her eyes meeting mine with quiet intensity. “You’re trouble,” she murmured, her fingers lingering on my thighs. Another time, near the laundry room, she was folding clothes when I walked in, towel loose, muttering about the pain. She paused, a shirt in her hands, her gaze lingering on my bulge. “Sit there,” she said, pointing to a chair, her voice carrying a dominant edge. She knelt, her hands guiding me where she wanted, her touch slow and deliberate, teasing with just her fingertips one moment, then gripping firmly the next. Once, in my bedroom at dusk, she sat beside me, her strokes slow and teasing, her fingers tracing circles. “Missed feeling… needed,” she whispered, her voice heavy, before finishing me with a lingering touch, her eyes glinting with something deeper.

One afternoon, in the living room, I stood in my towel, hard again. She was sorting magazines, her eyes flicking to me, a mix of conflict and hunger. “Back at it?” she teased, setting the stack aside. I nodded, dropping the towel. She started with her hands, but I pushed the line, voice low. “What if… you used your mouth instead?” Her eyes widened, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. She paused, lips parting, then leaned closer, her breath warm against me. “You think that’ll help more?” she asked, her voice soft but curious. “I promise,” I said, holding her gaze. She hesitated, her fingers tightening on my thigh, then nodded. Her lips brushed the tip, tentative, then took me in, her tongue swirling, slow and exploratory. Her hand rested on my stomach, fingers digging in slightly, like she was grounding herself. When I came, she didn’t pull back, swallowing with a soft hum, then wiping her lips with a shaky smile. “Better?” she asked, her voice betraying a thrill she couldn’t hide.

From then on, her help evolved. In the bedroom, she’d slip in after dark, her mouth taking over, sucking with growing hunger, her hands lingering on my chest, a quiet moan escaping her as she worked. “It’s been too long since I felt… full,” she murmured one night, her voice loaded, before diving back in. In the bathroom, she’d kneel after my showers, her lips and tongue coaxing me to release, her touch more confident each time. One morning in the kitchen, me in just a towel, she caught my eye, dropped to her knees, and took me in her mouth, finishing me before the coffee brewed. “You’re gonna wear me out,” she teased, her fingers brushing my hip, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Her style shifted too. She ditched bras, her nipples sharp against tight tops. She’d strut around in towels, barely covering her curves, or wear sheer gowns that flashed lace panties and bras. One morning, she was making tea in a red netted dress, so transparent I could trace her black bra and white panties. My blood roared. I went upstairs, plugged in earphones—no music, just waiting for her call. I pulled up a porn clip, let the moans fill my ears, and let my cock stand tall. When she called for tea and I didn’t answer, she came to my room.

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She saw the tent, her eyes dark with a feral spark. She tugged off my shorts, her fingers wrapping around me, but I stopped her. “Your mouth,” I said, voice rough. She didn’t hesitate, taking me deep, her lips tight, tongue swirling. We kissed after, raw and hungry, her tongue breaking through mine. She guided my hands to her gown, and I peeled it off, unhooked her bra, and took her breast in my mouth, sucking hard while kneading the other. Her hand worked my balls, driving me wild. Before we went further, she paused, her lips wet from me. I touched her face, my thumb brushing her cheek, and she squeezed my hand, her eyes locking on mine—a silent agreement we were both all-in.

I suggested 69, and she flashed a wicked grin. I lay back; she climbed over, her pussy hovering above my face, dripping with heat. I spread her lips, kissed deep, and licked like I was starved. She moaned, her voice breaking as she sucked me, her tongue relentless. Her first orgasm hit, thighs trembling around my head. She slid off, panting, eyes burning with need. I laid her on the bed, licked her pussy once more, then eased my cock inside. It was molten, tight, perfect. I started slow, her moans filling the room, then she begged for more. I picked up speed, driving deep, her screams echoing. After twenty minutes, I flipped her into doggy style, her ass high, and pounded her, slow then fast, for another fifteen. When I felt the edge, I gasped, “Where?” She looked back, eyes raw. “It’s been so long since anyone’s come in my pussy,” she said, voice thick with need. “Please… do it.” I thrust deep, unloading everything, her body trembling as she took it all.

We collapsed, spent, and from that day, the house was our playground. No clothes, no rules—just us, free to indulge whenever the urge struck.