We were in a good rhythm. Or, really, Sheila was in a good rythm, her head raising and lowering like a piston of the little engine that could. I, naturally, was slipping into that euphoric stupor where I don't really think, I just thank the heavens above for the unmistakable sensation that my entire body was repeatedly being immersed in her wet, warm mouth. As a result, I neither heard the house front door open, then close, nor noticed the sudden sliver of light from the hallway that peeked from underneath my bedroom door, just before it was opened and all sorts of brightness crashed the party.
"Stevie," my mother said. "Did you know you neglected to put on the lights above the garage door for me?"
With a hand pressed firmly on the comforter covering Sheila's head and half her body, I said, "No, Mother, I did not."
My mother had an out-stretched arm holding the door open, while she leaned--almost casually, I'd say--against the door frame. She looked me square in the eyes.
"Now I realize you're quite busy," she said. "But when I come home, I like the driveway well-lit."
"Yes, Mother, well-lit."
"You see, Stevie, your mother works very hard and..."
Now, at this point, the turgidity of my--ahem--manliness should have been cascading down the back side of the al dente peak. However, while Sheila, bare ass illuminated from the hallway light, held her head remarkably still under the rumpled comforter, which was underneath my equally still hand, her tongue was unexpectedly active. Feverishly active, really. Moving about the best--ahem--seven inches of me like a silk scarf twining and twirling around a snooty businessman's neck as he crosses Manhattan's Fifth Avenue on a blustery fall evening--the description of which, I imagined specifically to distract me from the fact that I was coming (bad pun intended) close to twitching, and convulsing, and, generally, having an orgasm in front of my mother, while I was talking to my mother. And the idea that in a few seconds I might unleash my orgasm face for her to see, so that it might be indelibly scratched into her memory for the rest of her days, so much so that she'd be able to easily describe it to her friends at the Wellmont Tennis Club or in Best Tresses hair salon, or recreate it for my aunts when the women in our family gather around the kitchen table on Palm Sunday, Easter, Memorial Day, July 4th, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas, birthdays, etc., was... well, downright, disconcerting.
"... do you understand, Stevie. I don't mean to be one of those mothers that nags, bags, nags all the time. I just want a little consideration. That's all."
"Yes, Mother, consideration."
To be honest, I'm not sure what in the world she was saying to me, since Sheila's tongue was, apparently, getting more creative and acrobatic. My brain was at DefCon 5, as I approached the event horizon.
"I'm going to heat up some leftovers," my mother continued. "I'll pull out some extra."
"Yes... leftovers..." I barely got out.
It was happening. Yes, it was definitely happpening.
Close...
Closer...
Really goddamn close...
Then just before my mother closed the door, she offered a rather formal nod of her head and said, "Some leftovers for you, too, Sheila?" who replied with a quick, if sheepish, thumbs-up with her free hand, just as I was--
--exploding.
"Ohhhhh..." turned into "Ahhhhh..." which then melded into a baritone-low gutteral groan, gurgle, moan, and whimper--all mixed into one gigantic clusterfuck crescendo of odd sounds.
I can only imagine--so incredibly regretfully--what my O face might've looked like.
"Well," my mother said, with more than a hint of amusement. "That was not your best look."
My head fell back into the pillow.
"Food in five, " she said.
As she closed my bedroom door.
"Stevie," my mother said. "Did you know you neglected to put on the lights above the garage door for me?"
With a hand pressed firmly on the comforter covering Sheila's head and half her body, I said, "No, Mother, I did not."
My mother had an out-stretched arm holding the door open, while she leaned--almost casually, I'd say--against the door frame. She looked me square in the eyes.
"Now I realize you're quite busy," she said. "But when I come home, I like the driveway well-lit."
"Yes, Mother, well-lit."
"You see, Stevie, your mother works very hard and..."
Now, at this point, the turgidity of my--ahem--manliness should have been cascading down the back side of the al dente peak. However, while Sheila, bare ass illuminated from the hallway light, held her head remarkably still under the rumpled comforter, which was underneath my equally still hand, her tongue was unexpectedly active. Feverishly active, really. Moving about the best--ahem--seven inches of me like a silk scarf twining and twirling around a snooty businessman's neck as he crosses Manhattan's Fifth Avenue on a blustery fall evening--the description of which, I imagined specifically to distract me from the fact that I was coming (bad pun intended) close to twitching, and convulsing, and, generally, having an orgasm in front of my mother, while I was talking to my mother. And the idea that in a few seconds I might unleash my orgasm face for her to see, so that it might be indelibly scratched into her memory for the rest of her days, so much so that she'd be able to easily describe it to her friends at the Wellmont Tennis Club or in Best Tresses hair salon, or recreate it for my aunts when the women in our family gather around the kitchen table on Palm Sunday, Easter, Memorial Day, July 4th, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas, birthdays, etc., was... well, downright, disconcerting.
"... do you understand, Stevie. I don't mean to be one of those mothers that nags, bags, nags all the time. I just want a little consideration. That's all."
"Yes, Mother, consideration."
To be honest, I'm not sure what in the world she was saying to me, since Sheila's tongue was, apparently, getting more creative and acrobatic. My brain was at DefCon 5, as I approached the event horizon.
"I'm going to heat up some leftovers," my mother continued. "I'll pull out some extra."
"Yes... leftovers..." I barely got out.
It was happening. Yes, it was definitely happpening.
Close...
Closer...
Really goddamn close...
Then just before my mother closed the door, she offered a rather formal nod of her head and said, "Some leftovers for you, too, Sheila?" who replied with a quick, if sheepish, thumbs-up with her free hand, just as I was--
--exploding.
"Ohhhhh..." turned into "Ahhhhh..." which then melded into a baritone-low gutteral groan, gurgle, moan, and whimper--all mixed into one gigantic clusterfuck crescendo of odd sounds.
I can only imagine--so incredibly regretfully--what my O face might've looked like.
"Well," my mother said, with more than a hint of amusement. "That was not your best look."
My head fell back into the pillow.
"Food in five, " she said.
As she closed my bedroom door.
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