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Young Ninja Group (ages 3-5)

Public·6 members
Greyson Garcia
Greyson Garcia

Mother Gives Son Blow Job

John snatched the paper from his wife's hand, and began scanning the list. The usual video games, designer clothes, and tools were on his list this year. But what caught his eye was the last item on the list. Simply, it stated, "A blowjob."

mother gives son blow job


Then he laughed out loud, saying, "I don't know honey, it's what every guy wants for a gift. I know I did at his age. I lost my virginity to my mother's best friend when I was your son's age. It was my birthday present. I don't see anything wrong about his Christmas list."

He was still laughing as he went over to her, and began rubbing her shoulders. He definitely was surprised by Brian's request, but he also knew he wasn't a prude. He wanted to ease her mind, but on the same token, it excited him to imagine his wife giving their son his first blowjob. Maybe even fucking him by the Christmas tree. And what better Christmas present is there than a mother-son affair. Maybe even they could get into a three-way. Their sex life was always good, but had become dull lately. Maybe this was the spark that would turn three people on to the point of ecstacy. He had thought about suggesting that they swing with other couples, but this scenario seemed even better.

Her hubby replied, "Marie, you are the best damn cocksucker I had ever met. You were the best long before I met you. What guy in his right mind would not want your hot lips wrapped around his dick? The thought of this is turning me on, I think I could use one of your world-class blowjobs right now."

"All I am saying, Marie, is give him a blowjob for Christmas. It has me so hot I am about to blow a load down your throat. That hot mouth of yours has driven me nuts for years, so now maybe, it's time to treat our son to the same pleasures," he grunted as her mouth was working wonders on his dick.

She pulled off gasping and breathlessly said, "Well, if you think it's okay, then I guess I'll give my son a blowjob for Christmas. But you do understand John, that he'll probably want to fuck me as well. Are you okay with all of this?"

Marie felt the ever expanding length of her hubby's cock rising, and she knew the sign. He was about to blow, sending her into delirium over the idea of taking just another cumload from her sweet man.

"I know, honey. Having movies of a mother sucking and fucking our son, and also all the sex we could possibly have together, I only can see a win-win situation," he said as he headed out the bedroom door.

As Marie laid back on the bed, she was still turned on and began to masturbate. She couldn't wait to show her son what a wonderful cocksucker his mother was. The only problem was Christmas was still a week away!

Blushing bright red now, his mother replied, "Ummm, I'll do my best, son. Some things are hard to get at the last minute. You did ask for an awful lot. I guess you will just have to wait until Christmas morning to see what Santa brings you."

The young man was cursing now and telling her how great a cocksucker she was, how she was a cock-hungry whore, and that she could blow his dick anytime she wanted. She in turn kept sucking up and down his rod as her hands jiggled his smooth nuts. The clerk began to take over and was feeding her his manhood, watching her continually taking it right down to his pubes. But the pleasure of his first blowjob would be short lived, as he reached the threshold rather quickly. Her lips were just too tight and too good, and the excitement overwhelmed him.

She loved to hear those words that warned her of their submission to her wonderful cocksucking. She knew she had any guy in her power with her skill at sucking them off. And as his cock jerked in her mouth, she felt the first jet of sperm slam into her throat. She pulled back just enough to soon swallow that first spurt as well as the ones that were quickly shooting against the roof of her mouth. Another success story was met as she quickly gulped down all of the cum this young man had to offer for his first blowjob.

She sits at her metal-topped kitchen table in the late afternoon, a slender black woman wearing a red jersey and a thin gold necklace. She speaks quietly, without rancor, and with an intelligence that shines through her many grammatical lapses. In the corner of her federally subsidized apartment on Boston's busy Cambridge Street, the television babbles incessantly -- although her son, Haron, is more interested in drinking apple juice, drawing pictures for his visitor, and thrusting a book into his mother's lap.

It is not a pleasant story: a tale of antagonisms, failed affections, financial pressure, and near poverty. It is the story of Cheryl Langford, who reluctantly describes herself as a ''welfare mother.''

If things had been better at home, perhaps she would have seen it through. But her father and mother, who both worked, had an unhappy and sometimes violent relationship and little love to spare for their children. ''My parents wanted to encourage me to move,'' Cheryl says with obvious understatement. ''It took me a long time to realize that my family didn't care for me.'' Faced with that atmosphere at home and the setback at school, she says, ''I just gave up.''

She found her own apartment in the run-down Grove Hall section of Roxbury, and began working without a diploma: by day in a nonpaying volunteer job at the Martha Eliot Health Center in Jamaica Plain; at night, for pay, as a clerk in the Boston Municipal Court. And she began living with the man who would later become Haron's father. ''It didn't work out for us, as you can see,'' she says. That's also an understatement: Since she left him, she says, he has become increasingly violent, knocking all the windows out of her apartment and kidnapping her son for a month. She finally went to court and obtained a restraining order to keep him away from her home. But according to her neighbor , Mary Ann Martorana, who is also a welfare mother, the police don't bother to enforce it. ''They call it 'domestic violence,' '' she says, ''and they don't take it seriously.''

When Cheryl found herself pregnant in 1979, she says, she refused to move back to her parent's house. Talking about raising her child, she said, ''I basically didn't know what to do,'' adding: ''My mother didn't tell me anything about it.'' At the time, she was working in a factory in Somerville, packing ice cream cones. She knew she did not want an abortion. Yet she was determined not to go on welfare, for she felt strongly that she did not want to burden others with the results of her own problems. ''I had this baby,'' she says, ''and it's my responsibility.'' Her son, who was born two months early and has asthma, spent his first four months in a hospital. Half the cost was paid by insurance through her employer; the other half she bore herself.

After Haron came home, the next step was to find day care for him. By then she was living at her present Cambridge Street address - close to downtown and to her work. She called around the city until she found a licensed day-care facility that had a ''Title XX'' opening -- a federally-assisted slot for the child of a low-income mother. The one she finally found was out in Jamaica Plain -- two subway trains and a bus ride each way, and costing her $100 a month.

Then her son's father, she says, began ''hassling me,'' calling her up at work and demanding her paycheck. But the worst blow, she says, came from the Reagan administration. Last October, after the nation's new budget came into effect, she got a call from the day-care center. The Title XX funds had been cut. Her son was welcome to continue at the center, but she would have to bear the full cost: $75 a week, $300 a month. She had two days to decide.

It was that, along with her former boyfriend's hassling her at work, that finally precipitated her into welfare, she says. She could have found a cheaper slot for Haron in family day care (where mothers take a few children into their own homes), but she felt his health required something better.

But Cheryl is one of the 22 percent of welfare mothers in Massachusetts who live in subsidized housing. For her clean two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment in a building converted from a parking garage, she now pays $27 a month. Her electricity bill (including heat) adds another $75 -- and as we talk, she is careful to turn off all lights except the one closest to us. She does, however, have two new-looking television sets; and although her apartment is small, she has two phones, for which she pays between $25 and $30 a month.

''I'm not a woman who wants to stay like this,'' she says simply. What especially hurts her, she says, is the presumption that all women on welfare are lazy, promiscuous, and dishonest. ''We're always presumed to be guilty of something,'' she says. She is particularly upset with Massachusetts Gov. Edward J. King. His attitude, she says, seems to be that ''we are all profligate'' and that ''we aren't any good as mothers.''

Mary Ann Martorana, a vivacious white woman who by now is an active participant in the kitchen-table discussion, takes it a step further. ''With the climate that Reagan and King have created, they want to take our kids away,'' she says. Pressed to explain, both she and Cheryl cite cases of ''good'' mothers whose children were legally taken from them and put into foster care.

Foster care, says Mary Ann, costs the state only $180 a month per child. So, if some legal means could be found to separate Haron from his mother, the state would cut the $384.20 it now pays Cheryl for AFDC and food stamps by more than half. It would also remove another name from the welfare rolls -- which, with welfare fraud coming under such scrutiny recently, would be a popular political move.

Max Donaldson was a waxy, whiskey-logged financier who knew his son not to be stupid, and knew himself to be less stupid than his son. He blamed the mother. Like him, she was a corporate triumph in the Windy City, but unlike him, she was a churchgoer and a baker of puddings, a saver of dinner leftovers in labeled yogurt tubs; she kept in close cooing touch with the half dozen siblings she'd grown up tending in the woods of Minnesota, and the only albums she owned were musicals. She volunteered; she drank only moderately and then became pink and gullible; she'd betrayed never a wince of resentment of their children's squalling dependence. Unlike him she'd rewarded their small son for stunts like giving up a goal to a pitied opponent or half his Halloween candy to a kid claiming to have lost his to a hole in the bag--for later rounding up his motley middle school friends for an un-sponsored no-to-drugs campaign at the mouth of the lunchroom: one hand-drawn poster per susceptible peer, each library-researched and on recycled paper. These acts, this boy, embarrassed Max. So did his ex-wife's license, to this day, to pull the boy onto her yielding lap, after a gluey Midwestern dinner, folding in his gangly limbs, clucking, both beaming. Their daughter Max understood better. She'd always squirmed off that lap. Now off in London, trying to model--attractive, unforeseeably attractive, though probably not attractive enough--she was proving the unsure bet, but still hers was a power--the power to leave lovers, to make the other party strive to impress--of the kind Max recognized.


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