Mother's pity
Olga had divorced her husband long ago for the usual reasons—he drank, fooled around, didn't help, didn't consider anyone, and lived only for his own pleasure. How many tears she had shed, 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, stretched out, 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 up to hug and
kiss her when parting, if he was running late he would call to warn her so she wouldn't worry, to reassure her. 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, as usual he went into her bedroom. She wasn't asleep, 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 for that she kissed me on the cheek!" Olga looked carefully 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 sleep.
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 over her mind. She lay there for another hour, tormented, then a decision came—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 bed. 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 called her son's girlfriend to herself; 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, sometimes crying, sometimes 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, offered contacts of doctors they knew. Olga's explanations that her son had fallen in love and that's why 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, which 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's arm, go shopping, just walk around, 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—for her beauty, kindness, for 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 would never part, that he would have interesting work, that he would successfully finish the institute, that he would 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 would watch TV together, discuss things, talk openly, and the day would end 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 was expected, which both eagerly awaited.
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 have to 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 alone, especially in a spoiled mood. She changed into her home 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 alone, dumbly, poured more 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 this 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 the first thing she thought, 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 removed the sleepiness and cleared her head. She began to worry. Rubbing her young, firm body with a terry towel, she put on her silk peignoir and came out of the bathroom. Need to make dinner for my son. She made porridge, cut sandwiches, put a plate and a glass in a visible place. Then poured herself a shot of cognac, had a candy as a chaser, and went to her bedroom. Lay down in bed, turned on the night light, 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 pounded and anxiety appeared again. 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, so as not to put him in an awkward position.
Kostya walked down the hallway, stood for a while, then approached her bedroom and stood in front of the door. Then, apparently finally making up his mind, 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 started sobbing like a child, smearing tears over 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 bored with me—so she wouldn't see me anymore." At these words, her son started sobbing again, saying and asking—"Are all women really like that?" Olga shook after his words; a wave of pity and tenderness for her unhappy, offended child washed over her. "Oh, come on, my dear, listening to whom? A girl who only thinks about herself! You are the best, the most handsome, the most tender, the most beloved to me!" Overwhelmed by 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 are mine, I won't give you to anyone, to anyone, ever!"
Feelings boiled inside her, didn't let her 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 for breath, 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 slid down 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 already had no room. With a quick movement, 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, hard, 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 had already started screaming, howling, accelerating her movements. Her son silently did what needed to be done, getting excited and accelerating, breathing heavily. His hands stroked and gently touched his mother's firm breasts, which made her start screaming at the top of her lungs. Her son suddenly jerked, screamed in a thin voice, tensed, and with a growl and a howl went limp, powerlessly collapsing on 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, going 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 are 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. "Sonny, 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 connect as deeply as possible with her son's member. To enhance and accelerate arousal, she began stimulating her clitoris with her right hand, which made arousal start 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 screaming. The pace of her movements became even faster, her moans turned into a continuous, guttural cry, she shook, arched, and went limp, collapsing on her son's chest.
Her sobs were accompanied by tears; she cried 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 such men in the world! Never in my life have I experienced such a strong orgasm! You are the most tender, 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, pouring 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 really are 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 widely, whispered in a tender 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 are my only man, I hope for a long time!" Kostya whispered confidentially: "And you are my first woman…"—and became embarrassed. "Silly, why are you embarrassed! It's happiness that I'm your first, we are 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"—Olga laughed.
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, desire appeared below again, and she began to flow.
Olga lay more comfortably, began moaning, stroking her son's head between her legs. "Please, Kostik, my dear, continue…" Receiving approval, feeling his mother's excitement and growing arousal, her son, like a diligent student, began moving his tongue more actively, feeling 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 again screamed 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: "Sonny, my happiness, my joy, you are a real man, what pleasure I got! Now you are truly 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 them. On the contrary, she had found peace and regained her son, made