Mother's pity
Olga had divorced her husband long ago for the usual reasons—he drank, cheated, didn't help, didn't consider anyone, and lived only for his own pleasure. She had shed so many tears, always hoping he would come to his senses, start helping and caring—all in vain. Over the five years since the divorce, her son Kostya had grown into a full-fledged adult, having shot up and matured. He finished school, studied at the institute for a year, and now worked as a manager, earning his own money for food and clothes, and he didn't even take money from her for going out with friends.
Kostya had a heart of gold—kind, caring, obedient, he never said a harsh word, still called her "mommy" as in childhood, always came to hug and
kiss her when parting, called if he was running late to reassure her so she wouldn't worry. Olga couldn't get enough of him; all her friends were envious, constantly saying that God had rewarded her with such a son for her tears and humiliation from her husband. She lived only for him, and he shared all his innermost thoughts with her, told her everything about himself, hid nothing, sought her advice. In short, their relationship was warm and trusting.About a month ago, her son came home late from his friends and, as usual, came into her bedroom. She was awake, waiting for him: "Mommy, I met a girl at my friends' place, she's a student, lives in a rented apartment, very independent! We talked all evening, then I walked her to her apartment, and she kissed me on the cheek for it!" Olga looked closely at her son, at his flushed face, ruffled his hair, and replied: "I'm glad you've become a real grown-up"—something clenched in her own chest, she felt lonely and sad. Kostya didn't notice the change in his mother's mood and kept talking about his girlfriend. They talked for half an hour, then her son, as always, wished her good night, hugged, kissed her, and went to bed.
Olga didn't sleep half the night, thinking, trying to imagine her son with a girl in their apartment, got completely upset and cried. Only now did she realize how dear her son was to her, how much she loved him, how she didn't want to part with him, to give him to someone else. Suddenly, she imagined another girl kissing and hugging her Kostya, and genuine pangs of jealousy took hold of her mind. She lay there for another hour, tormented, then came a decision—"I won't give him up, I won't give him to anyone"—after that, relief came. She resolutely got up, went to the kitchen, drank a shot of cognac, had a candy as a chaser, and went to sleep. Soon she fell asleep.
From that day on, her life changed. Obsessive thoughts wouldn't leave her head; she constantly thought about the "homewrecker," as she privately called her son's girlfriend; anxiety and despair wouldn't let go of her soul. And Kostya, every evening, not noticing his mother's suffering, dressed up in front of the mirror and practically ran off to meet his girlfriend. He returned only at midnight, continuing to torment his mother's heart with details of the date, asking her advice on how to behave, how not to hurt or offend his chosen one.
Olga listened, worried, and then couldn't fall asleep for a long time, crying or feeling melancholy. After a week of her son's daily dates, Olga grew haggard, lost weight. Her friends, noticing the sharp changes in her, asked every day what was wrong, suggested doctors they knew. Olga's explanations that her son had fallen in love and she was so upset because she didn't want changes in her life—didn't satisfy her friends, and they kept pestering her, suggesting all sorts of illnesses.
And then Saturday came. In the morning, she baked jam pies that her son adored and could eat almost ten at once, tidied up the house, asked her son to help her bring groceries from the store. It was their custom that on Saturdays she would dress up, take her son by the arm, go shopping, just stroll, feeling proud of him—that he was so tall, handsome, walking importantly beside her, telling her about his affairs, seeking advice, smiling at his mom, and seeing their happy faces, women would turn around and also start smiling kindly. Love for her son overflowed her heart; she always tried to look modern, stylish, youthful, and since God hadn't shortchanged her in beauty and figure—the sight was truly worthy.
After the stores, they would come home, have a feast, cook together, set the table. Then they would go to their rooms, put on festive clothes, and sit down at the table. For a year now, she considered it necessary to put good wine on the table, since her son was an adult. Kostya, like a true gentleman, would open it, pour it, and give toasts dedicated to mommy—to her beauty, kindness, to her being modern, understanding everything, and in general—the best friend. Olga would laugh heartily, rejoice, kiss her son, say words in return and wishes—that they never part, that he have interesting work, that he successfully finish the institute, that he become famous. Then, after the festive lunch ended, her son would wash the dishes, not allowing his mom to do it, and she would rest. They watched TV together, discussed things, talked openly, and the day ended with a delicious dinner, good night wishes, farewell hugs and kisses. After that, they would part, and another week would begin, at the end of which a holiday awaited, which both eagerly anticipated.
On this fateful Saturday, everything went differently. She, as always after breakfast, went to get ready to go shopping with her son, put on jeans that hugged her slender figure, a white sweater, a leather jacket, tied a scarf, applied bright makeup, and came out into the living room, ready to accompany "her man." Kostya was already dressed and waiting for her in the hallway. She noticed his guilty, troubled face. "Mom, I'm sorry, Lena is waiting for me, we agreed to go to the movies." Olga didn't expect such "betrayal" from her son, but managed to pull herself together, smile, and say: "If you promised—you must keep it—go." Kostya, with obvious relief, hurried out of the apartment. When he left, anger washed over Olga: "Well, that's it, no more holidays," she thought to herself, and a feeling of jealousy mixed with anger completely engulfed her. Out of helplessness, she cried and started taking off her jacket and shoes. She didn't want to go anywhere alone, especially in a spoiled mood. She changed into a house robe, wiped off her makeup, smeared by tears, and went to the kitchen. She took out the cognac, opened a box of candies, poured a full glass of the burning liquid, and drank it. Inside, everything burned, but it became easier. She sat there dumbly alone, refilled the cognac, and drank. The heartache subsided, but resentment still wouldn't leave her alone.
"Damn you," she said aloud, mentally addressing Lena, "I still won't give you my little son..." With that thought, she staggered, crawling to her bedroom, lay down, covered herself with a blanket, and drifted off for a while. When she woke up, the room was dark. She automatically looked at the time—it was already 11 p.m. "Has Kostya come?" was her first thought; she got up and went to his bedroom. Her son wasn't back yet.
She went to take a shower, turned on warm water; the prickly streams of water finally dispelled her drowsiness and cleared her head. She began to worry. Rubbing her young, firm body with a terry towel, she put on her silk peignoir and left the bathroom. She needed to make dinner for her son. She made porridge, cut sandwiches, put a plate and glass in a visible spot. Then she poured herself a shot of cognac, had a candy as a chaser, and went to her bedroom. She lay down in bed, turned on the nightlight, soft lyrical music, and, closing her eyes, sank into an anxious doze, waiting for her son.
About an hour later, the front door slammed; she immediately woke up and tensed. Her heart raced, and anxiety returned. Without getting up, she listened to the sounds in the hallway... Something was off with her son, what—she couldn't immediately understand. It seemed to her she heard stifled sobs, as if her son was crying and trying to hold back his tears. She grew even more worried but didn't get up, not wanting to put him in an awkward position.
Kostya walked down the hallway, stood for a moment, then approached her bedroom and stood in front of the door. Then, apparently having finally made up his mind, he opened the door and entered her room. In the semi-darkness, she saw the suffering expression on her son's face, tears in his eyes—he really was crying. "What happened, son?" she asked—"Come here, tell me." Kostya sat down on her bed and suddenly burst into childlike sobs, smearing tears across his face with his fists. "Mommy," she heard through the sobs—"Am I really such a freak that no one needs me?!" She stroked his head, calming him and saying—"Tell me, what happened?" Having calmed down a bit, her son managed to say through tears. "Lena and I went to the movies, to a cafe, walked along the street. Then I walked her to her building entrance, hugged her, kissed her on the lips, and she laughed and said I was a nerd, that I didn't know how to do anything, she wasn't interested and was bored with me—so she wouldn't see me anymore." At these words, her son started sobbing again, saying and asking—"Are all women like that?" Olga trembled after his words; a wave of pity and tenderness for her unhappy, offended child washed over her. "Oh, come on, sweetie, listening to a girl who only thinks about herself! You're the best, the most handsome, the most gentle, the most beloved to me!" Overwhelmed by her feelings, Olga couldn't restrain herself, seeing her son's crying and sobbing. She frantically began kissing and stroking her son's face, saying—"You're mine, I won't give you to anyone, to anyone, ever!"
Feelings boiled inside her, making it hard to breathe, and she impulsively pressed her lips to her son's lips, kissing, stroking his head, pressing her whole body against him. Her son, taken by surprise, froze, then began responding to his mother's kiss, timidly touching his tongue to hers. They kissed until Olga's jaw began to ache, she was gasping, shivering, but she couldn't tear herself away from her son. Breaking away for a second, she whispered—"Come to me"—then again pressed her lips to his.
With her hands, she stroked his back, his chest, then involuntarily her hand descended to his stomach, lower, to where everything was tense. Without thinking for a second, she, continuing her passionate kiss, with her left trembling hand began to unfasten her son's belt, the zipper, freeing his flesh, which no longer had enough room. With a quick motion, pulling down his underwear, she moaned and took his large, excited organ in her hand and gently began to move. Her son was petrified but didn't hinder his mother's movements. Jerking open her peignoir, she wrapped both arms around her son's body and rolled him on top of her. Spreading her legs wide, taking his protruding organ in her hands, she moaned and with a gasp, plunged it inside herself. Feeling the hot, alive, firm, familiar inside her—with her hand she began to set the pace of movement, striving to meet his body and accelerating the rhythm.
From unbearable, sharp sensations, her whole body trembled, burned, emitting juices and twitching in convulsions. She wasn't just moaning; she began to cry out, whimper, accelerating her movements. Her son silently did what needed to be done, getting aroused and accelerating, breathing heavily. His hands stroked and gently touched his mother's firm breasts, making her start screaming at the top of her lungs. Her son suddenly jerked, cried out in a thin voice, tensed, and with a growl and howl went limp, powerlessly collapsing onto his mother's body, trembling in convulsions. "My dear, my beloved, I'll do everything for you, we don't need anyone else, just be with me!" Olga lamented through tears, kissing his head, face, lips, eyes.
Then she turned him onto his back, threw off the blanket, frantically, in a surge of tenderness, began kissing his body, descending lower and lower. Reaching his exhausted organ, she tenderly took it into her mouth, caressing with her tongue and helping with her hands, feeling the tart, sharp, intoxicating taste of his semen, licking and swallowing the precious drops. Her son lay on his back with closed eyes, stroking her hair, quietly whispering—"Mommy, my beloved, you're the best!" Soon, thanks to Olga's efforts, movement appeared under her hand, his member began to increase in size and again became firm and erect. "Son, you lie still, I'll do it myself," Olga whispered again. She sat on top and with a moan, helping herself with her hands, slowly plunged his member into her hot, juice-flowing womb. From unbearably pleasant sensations, Olga arched like a bow, moaned, and began making rhythmic movements with her pelvis herself, trying to make contact with her son's member as deeply as possible. To enhance and accelerate arousal, she began stimulating her clitoris with her right hand, causing arousal to grow in leaps. Her son watched his excited mother with wide eyes, who no longer saw or heard anyone or anything, surrendering to her feeling, throwing back her head, moaning and crying out. The pace of her movements became even faster, her moans turned into a continuous, guttural cry, she trembled, arched, and went limp, collapsing onto her son's chest.
Her sobs were accompanied by tears; she wept from happiness, loving her son with every cell of her body, gasping and melting from tenderness, exhausted and excited. "My dear, you can't imagine what pleasure I got! There are no men like that in the world! I've never experienced such a strong orgasm in my life! You're the most gentle, the most skillful, the strongest man in the world! I won't give you to anyone! What did I do to deserve such happiness, my sunshine!!!" Olga, streaming with tears, began kissing her son's face and neck again. "It's so good that your silly girlfriend didn't get to know you, what you're really like! How grateful I am to her for that—you can't imagine."
Pausing for a minute, raising her head, she smiled, looking straight into her son's eyes. "Did you appreciate your mom? Can I count on you from now on?" Kostya smiled broadly, whispered in a gentle voice: "Mommy—you're a miracle! I couldn't even dream of such a thing! How understanding and kind you are!" "I'm all yours now, you're my only man, I hope for a long time!" Kostya whispered confidentially: "And you're my first woman..."—and grew embarrassed. "Silly, why are you embarrassed! It's happiness that I'm your first, we're just made for each other..." She moved away from him, lay on her back, smiled, and said: "Well, study! Admire!!!" "Mommy, how did you guess that I wanted to look at you, touch your beautiful body?" said Kostya. "I didn't guess, I felt it," laughed Olga.
Kostya immediately began kissing her breasts, helping himself with his hands, then her stomach, and finally her pubic area with its neat triangle of hair. Olga spread her legs wide, providing access to her languid womb, feeling the tender touches of her son's lips and tongue on her clitoris, labia, and inside. From her son's tender touches, languor, tension, and desire arose below again, and she began to flow.
Olga lay more comfortably, began to moan, stroking her son's head between her legs. "Please, Kostik, my dear, keep going..." Receiving approval, feeling his mother's excitement and growing arousal, her son, like a diligent student, began moving his tongue more actively, sensing the intoxicating taste and smell of his mother's juices. Olga, meanwhile, accelerated the pace of her pelvic movements, guiding her son's actions with her hands. Unexpectedly for herself, after a short time, a wave of sharp pleasure pierced her whole body, and she cried out again and went limp. "Lord, lord, what did I do to deserve such happiness!!!" Her son, lifting his head from her womb, looked at his mother, languid from caresses, with a proud smile. "Come to me, my dear!" Olga pulled her son to her, pressed against him, and froze, stroking and whispering: "Son, my happiness, my joy, you're a real man, I got such pleasure! Now you're really grown-up, you know how to surprise and reward a woman... I'm proud of you, proud that I raised such a man!!!" Stroking and pressing against each other, languid and happy, they unnoticeably fell asleep.
In the morning, Olga woke up first; the room was already light. Looking carefully at her son's smiling, serene face, she sighed with relief and felt lightness in her soul. No pangs of conscience, no shame—for some reason, she didn't feel any. On the contrary, she had found peace and regained her son, made him a man
for herself.