I am in love with my mom

But now, lying there in bed with a full-blown erection, I found myself very much embarrassed for the first time. And though she hadn’t as yet noticed it herself, I already had of course, looking down, seeing the telltale tent in the sheet between my legs. I moaned, not from necessarily being in pain, but again from the awkwardness of my situation. Though mom again took it for being in pain, immediately turning to call out to the nurse.

“When can he have some more pain medication?” she asked her, for what I knew had to have been the umpteenth time.

Bad enough that she’d called out to the nurse who now came into my room, but the direction of her eyes, where she then looked told me she now saw what I had feared my mother would soon discover for herself. Though initially startled, she quickly averted her gaze, spoke to my mother and then left the room.

“He’s still got a couple of hours yet,” she told my mother, sounding not quite irritated, but not in the happiest tone of voice either. I couldn’t help wondering if she found my lying there in bed with a woody disgusting or what. Especially with my own mother standing there next to my bed. But then as I feared, as she turned back around to face me with an apologetic look in her eyes for not being able to bring me some additional relief,

she then spotted it too. Time for that brief moment seemed to stand still. For both of us. There was indeed a surprised look on her face upon seeing me, and one of those classic “double-takes” as she briefly closed her eyes, opening them again immediately as though not quite believing she was actually looking at what she obviously was. It was as though she herself had hallucinated the obvious, finding that she hadn’t, and then looking back at me with surprised wonder, though I immediately saw her own look of nervous embarrassment and awkwardness appear in her face.

It reminded me of another time, so very long ago now. She had that very same look back then too.

I was still pretty young, lying there in bed playing with myself, the first signs and sensations of my impending orgasm already upon me. I hadn’t heard the simple quick warning knock on my door, too engrossed in the mental sensation to have been aware of it when mom walked into my room. How long she had stood there, I never really knew, though it couldn’t have been more than moments, just long enough to realize what it was I was doing, a surprised comment that perhaps she shouldn’t have even made, alerting me only then to her presence.

“Oh…I’m, I’m sorry!” she stuttered, stepping out and closing the door. At the sound of her voice my eyes had popped open, seeing that look in her face just before she turned heading back out of my room. I lay there in shock, my dick still in my hand, though already withering, seconds later rolling out of bed, throwing on a pair of pants and a tee-shirt, then sprinting out of my room down the stairs where I heard her fumbling around in the kitchen.

I didn’t know what to expect, perhaps some sort of chastisement perhaps, actually feeling like I deserved it for what I’d obviously been caught doing. But much to my surprise, I received a smile from her instead, albeit a nervous looking one when I entered.

“God mom…I’m sorry!”

“For what? There’s nothing to be sorry about, I’m the one who should be apologizing for walking in on you like that. Serves me right, next time I’ll wait for you to give me permission before just walking in.”

Her response surprised me. “But…”

“But what?” She then realized by the look on my face that I wasn’t just embarrassed, but ashamed. “Sit down,” she told me, still smiling, a look of understanding at my discomfort etched clearly within her face. “Maybe this is time for one of those talks,” she then stated.

And we talked for hours. She had begun by explaining to me that what I was doing was perfectly normal, perfectly natural, and nothing that I should ever, ever be ashamed of doing. I remembered asking her.

“You mean…you do it too?” I asked innocently. Again remembering that as we’d so often done before, being free to talk to her about things we already had, and things we soon would be, that my question didn’t really shock her, or upset her, though perhaps surprising her to some degree when I asked it. Her response however was in line with our mutual openness.

“Yes, of course!” She’d freely admitted.

As I said, we then talked about the subject for a considerable length of time after that. She’d told me once again it was a natural way of self discovery for one thing, learning about our own bodies and how we best felt when pleasuring ourselves in this way, how it would later on lead to sharing that intimacy with a partner. But she also told me how it very often helped to relieve stress, anxiety, and how it very often helped her to fall asleep at the end of a long busy or keyed up day.

It was for me an open door, an opportunity to dispel a few myths, a few rumors I had heard. It had gotten to the point that I was masturbating every day, sometimes two, even three times during a day. I had heard that doing so was a sign of some form of perversion, a sickness. And having heard that, I had become alarmed,

even trying to refrain from doing so at all, but then giving into the urge the next day, and if anything, doing it even more often, more frequently than I had been. I’d begun to wonder. So I asked her about that, even going so far as to ask her how often she did.

It was indeed one of the few times she actually looked a bit embarrassed at the question, but then honestly answered it, bringing me some measure of relief at least once and for all, dispelling the myth that I was some sort of sexual monster.

“Usually, two, three times a week, depending on my mood,” she’d honestly told me. “Though again, I do so to help me get to sleep for the most part, though I’m normal…just like you are,” she’d added. “Sometimes, like any woman would be…I’m simply horny.”

That night I remembered going to bed, the first time I’d actually allowed myself to entertain the thought, imagining my own mother lying in her bed, touching herself. Masturbating, climaxing. I had even tried shaking off the thought, picturing a particular girl I sort of had a crush on in school, trying to imagine her being naked, playing with herself, but the image kept coming back to my mother, seeing her instead. It was the only time I actively remembered allowing myself to actually orgasm while thinking of her as I lay there stroking my dick.

**

The touch of her hand on the side of my face returned me to the present. I sighed, closing my eyes, her simple touch bringing me some comfort. “That feels good,” I told her, relaxing to some degree.

“You should try and get some more sleep,” she offered, still caressing the side of my face with her fingertips.