...a work in progress

“You’re such a good boy, telling mama all that. Mama’s so proud of you baby!”

That’s what I croon, seconds from orgasm. His knuckles are plunged, front and center, to the mecca of my juice. His eyes are hurricane blue, lush with arousal, locked onto the approval on my face.  He’s such a sweet little boy, telling mama of his travels. And I overflow when my baby is honest, when he tells me where his hands have wandered.

We’ve been playing this game called radical honesty. It starts like every other game: with dueling wit and eyebrows perked, all parts of us alert and mischievous. We chatter until the talk turns visceral. Until our psyches are inflamed and open for whatever form the exchange might take. But this time, after we have kissed until my face is red from his stubble, and after his belt has streaked my skin, and after I sweetly lie and tell Daddy I will only ever want his cock and no other boys, and after that lie makes his cum bubble onto the outer lips of my pussy, that is when the real game begins.

That is when we play Emotional Russian Roulette.

That is when Mama pulls her pussy apart, legs sprayed with not an ounce of shame, fingers undulating over her hungry clit. And that is when his baby floats to the surface, even though I can see that little boy all the time, thinly veiled by his grown up 55 year old man movements. I call him out with just “Baby” and baby responds always with a soft variant of  “yes, mama, what do you need?”

He’s such a good little boy, smitten with life. He’s jovial. Loving. Kind.

Curious.

It’s his curiosity that gives him the most trouble, that poor little boy.