Hello! After a small site outage (sorry about that; if it happens again longer term, bookmark my Renderosity page for updates) we seem to be back running.
I’ve been having fun this week, setting up the new scenes for comic #2 of Reunited. One thing that always makes scenes hard to change is shifting lighting from day to night, so you can imagine my surprise when I made the changes I thought might work (adjusting light temp, brightness, angle of ‘the moon’, new candles etc) and hit my first test render to see this:
And it actually looks pretty evening-y already! All the other things (nudity, clothes going through bodies, champagne about to drop …) are easy fixes, but it’s lighting that makes the scene work, so I was pleased to see my very first test render look like the above; unusual to get so close to the concept with the first attempt, but pleasing when it happens!
A few minimal tweaks and we’re at …
Very eveningy. Just shove the mother character in there and …
We’re there! Oh no, hold on, she’s naked. That’s not right, silly me.
Here we are …
(OH GOD look at that water! Delicious. I love my water shaders so much! Slightly wibbly, sub-lit, evening swimming pool water is one the great pleasures of this world, IMO)
“Lovely, thank you so much”.
Mmmm, yes perhaps Mummy does look a little too bladdered in that image, though. I’ll split the difference for the comic because she only needs to look slightly sozzled.
Anyway, here’s a random render that we don’t need:
… and another scene with very minimal tweaks to make it usable …
… Lovely! Anyway yes, the comic is progressing nicely. We’ve done 50 pages, and are looking at a serious number of pages by the time we’re through, so don’t hold you breath just yet. It’ll be worth it though, another jolly little 80s romp, this. With perhaps a little more weight to it, by the time we’re done.
Also, BobC thank you for what you said on the previous post – did you see my response? I do tend to reply to people, just in case you hadn’t spotted it. Short version: thank you 🙏. I hope you’re doing alright after a few days reflection on a pretty chunky topic, chief.
I’m really looking forward to chapter 2. Your writing is Irn Bru! Thanks for being so down to earth & relatable.
That’s awesome. Love the work. If only I could have as much success trying to get myself a better job. It’s too bad other authors prefer to pursue things like SA, or other things in their artworks that kind of demean instead of uplift.
Yeah totally agree. If you can’t do sex stuff without abuse, then there’s a problem. It’s like if you can’t be funny without mocking people.
Wow. Thanks for the reply!
Just to be clear, while the actual story was never shared with my therapists over the decades, the relevant elements were. I’m fairly certain at least one of my therapists saw through me, but was gracious enough to let me forge my own path. No stones were left unturned, but I never said they all came from the same place.
One odd side-effect of the encounters with my Mom was that my sexuality became more comfortable to me. I was far less driven by teenage horniness hormones. The physical acts of sex became part of a process, rather than the massively overriding goal. It also made my social anxiety more tolerable, as I became more patient for whatever could happen to actually happen. Sex was about sharing, not conquering or scoring, and friendship and respect had to come first.
Another side-effect is that I’ve always stayed close to my exes after a romantic relationship ended. Sometimes for decades! Though I never married, I’ve truly loved well. Amazingly well, with awesome partners. Friendship first makes putting in the work a team effort. However, while I always felt ready and able going in, the relationships often showed where more therapy work was needed. Therapy progress was seldom rapid enough to reconstitute the relationship in anything like a timely manner, so returning to friendship was always the best path for us both. Each relationship was like another layer of the onion being shed, though in time I realized that hitting new layers was not really healthy for my partners, so I chose to withdraw from the dating scene.
But not the friendship scene! I have some great female friends. Sure, I’d love to boink each of them, and we sometimes flirt ruthlessly, though other times we discuss it so we can get past the awkwardness in the air. Once in a while, one friendship will become a FWB, but only for a period of maybe 3-6 months. “Sexual Healing” is real, and it’s a great song! It’s something friends can do for each other. But always talking about it is absolutely necessary. Friendship matters more than romance, and it matters more than sex.
My Mom set me on the path to having good relationships despite my mental health status or my hormones. And also being OK when no relationship was present. To make friends before making lovers. For example, I can’t do one-night stands. Tried it exactly once, felt wrong every minute through it, then never again. I can only love my friends.
That’s one of my four stories about my love life. The other three are much better, and I’ve titled them, “The First Woman I Should Have Married*.”, “The Second Woman I Should Have Married*”, and “The Third Woman I Should Have Married*.”
* Close, but not really, for reasons previously mentioned.
The story of my Mom and I never got a title. Stories that are never told don’t need titles, or introductions. Or explanations. Or justifications.
Geez, I’ve been skirting around the story while avoiding actually sharing it. It needs an introduction, some context, but I’m having trouble pulling the threads together. I want to go into declarative mode, just making statement after statement until I’ve hit all the bullet points.
Fuck it. I’ll just begin, and hope a coherent story falls out of it somehow.
Let’s start with the layout of my Mom’s cabin. The front door led into the kitchen. Then the kitchen had a doorway to the living room, which had a door to my Mom’s bedroom, which in turn had a door to the bathroom. So, the only way to the bathroom from the couch in the living room was through my Mom’s bedroom.
Let’s also start with the relationship between my depression and masturbation. When I was depressed, it felt like I was covered by a dark, heavy, wet blanket. My senses were dimmed. I didn’t feel bad, I just didn’t feel much of anything. No desires, no cravings, no hunger, no joy, and really not much sadness either. Just numb, and being crushed by the weight. It would get to the point that I just wanted to feel SOMETHING, and masturbation could give me brief moments that proved that what I was going through was not all there was. That I was able to feel moments of joy and release, despite the suffocating blanket.
I should also mention that depression felt like being rejected by life itself. Made me question the worthiness of my existence. But having lived through the family-imploding effects of my older brother’s death by suicide, I knew to my very core that I could not, and would never, visit that upon my family. No matter how bad things got for me. Basically, I had no way out, because while losing myself sometimes felt like the best path to relief, it was the worst path for those I loved. Yet I felt I had no path forward. Stuck, forced to let time flow on.
Then I ran away from it all, to move in with my Mom. And she kicked my ass into a much higher level of functionality, Get a job. Pay the bills. Finish school. Be a friend. Become an adult. Make adult choices and commitments. For me, it was functional external motivation like I had never had before. Everything prior had been directives from authority figures at home and at school. This was from my Mom, being my friend and mentor, my guide. And not loading me with expectations, but instead with encouragement and confidence.
While those good things happened, my depression was still there. And when it got bad, rather than share my inner turmoil with my Mom, I’d masturbate as needed until it passed. (When I finally did share my depression with my Mom, she told me she always knew, and that she tried to never burden me with more than I could bear, while also never assuming I was weak.)
I always tried to never masturbate when Mom was home, but there were times when gripping my dick was like gripping life itself. I felt I had no other alternative. So, of course there were times when I discretely masturbated into a tissue or napkin in the middle of the night, then tip-toed past my sleeping Mom to the bathroom, to flush it down the toilet. Sometimes, I’d partly miss the tissue, then still have to go to the bathroom to clean up.
One time, when returning from the bathroom, my Mom turned over in bed, looked at me and said, “You can just do that in the bathroom.”, then rolled over again and went back to sleep. I was stunned, feeling like a deer in the headlights, only for the moment to pass, and there being nothing for me to do but contain my shock and return to the couch.
Of course my Mom knew I was masturbating. I realized it was silly of me to believe I could ever be discrete enough to block the smell of cum in such a tiny cabin! I was ashamed, not of masturbating, but of being exposed so obviously. I sucked at secrecy! And who knew what sounds the couch made. Ugh. So obvious! And my Mom was so kind.
Not that I suddenly did all my masturbating in the bathroom when my Mom was home! Nope, no way. But, during longer bouts of depression, I felt able to do so without shame. Awkwardness, to be sure, but no shame.
Then came a time when I was heading to the bathroom, and I became aware that my Mom was wide awake. Not a problem when I had to eliminate, but it certainly felt awkward when I had to masturbate! Still, I went on, did the deed, and proceeded to walk back to the couch as if nothing had happened. Then my Mom asked, “Are you OK? You seem to be masturbating quite often lately.”
Same deer, same headlights. Only this time she didn’t roll over, didn’t turn away. She looked at me with compassion, and waited for my reply. “Yeah, it helps me.” I told her, and went past.
OK, time to describe my Mom. She was the tallest in her family, taller than her sister and both parents. She was also gorgeous, posing as a model for local artists starting when she was 16 until she had her first child. There’s a painting we had on the wall for as long as I remember, and I didn’t realize it was her until I was 6 or so, when the light caught her just as it was the painting. Seeing your Mom as others saw here was a huge perspective shift for me. It didn’t change how I saw her, but it changed my view of her place in the world. In her world.
But she was my Mom! Being asked about my masturbation forcefully reminded me she was also a woman. Not the kind of thinking I wanted in my brain! Ugh! Not that it was wrong, just new and very strange.
Soon after, during the same bout of depression, I was masturbating so much that I was beginning to lose sensation, needing to rub ever faster and for longer to reach climax. My escape was itself escaping me. I started to become distraught, desperate. I felt I was losing something vital to my existence.
After one unsuccessful attempt in the bathroom, I walked out in silent tears. Of course Mom was awake. She looked at me with silent love, tilting her head slightly to indicate she was ready to listen. I started crying, blubbering my status to her. I sat on the edge of her bed, and she hugged me until I was done talking. Then she asked me if I was tired enough to sleep. I said yes, and she said we could finish our conversation when we’re both refreshed. I returned to the couch, lightened by the catharsis of crying and sharing my distress with Mom. I slept like a baby.
Sure enough, the next evening while having dinner, my Mom asked if we could continue our conversation. I hadn’t been dreading the conversation, but I hadn’t been seeking it either, and I was encouraged by how relieved I felt after the prior night to feel surprisingly fine to have a talk. I repeated what I had tearfully shared the prior night, with greater clarity and context. She sat silently, looking at me, occasionally making “go on” noises and gestures.
When I finished, she looked at me and said, clear as day, that there’s a reason we can’t tickle ourselves. Huh? What? She said that self-touch can have limits. Then she said she knew this from personal experience. It’s OK. It’s normal.
My brain leapt to the obvious conclusions. My Mom masturbates? My Mom gets horny? My Mom is a sexual being? Duh. My Mom is wonderful and gorgeous. Though she’s never lacking for suitors, she simply has no need of them. One marriage was enough, and she’s not one to sleep around. I knew all this!
Mom sat there patiently, watching me blitz through my internal reactions. When I surfaced for air, she asked, “Do you have any questions?”
Another deer-headlight moment. My eyes were locked on hers, and I couldn’t look away. I needed to ask a question! “Do you think someone else’s touch could help me?” I couldn’t say “your touch”. Just couldn’t.
My Mom, ever the practical one, said, “Let’s do the dishes then find out.” I knew a door was opening, and Mom’s matter-of-factness was also calm acceptance, and a comfort to me. Doing the dishes was a remarkably normal moment on the path to something new. We moved to the living room to continue our discussion.
The practical, neutral, almost clinical atmosphere created earlier persisted. She asked if I would try to masturbate in front of her, saying she’d help if there were any problems. While this could have been weird, the prior night and our dinner conversation had pretty much numbed me to weirdness. I was willing, but I suddenly couldn’t move.
She calmly said, “Close your eyes and try.” When my eyes closed, I started wondering if Mom had seen my penis, or seen me naked in the past several years. I dunno. Maybe a glance while changing clothes during camping or at the beach? And I had not seen Mom naked since I was in kindergarten, a decade before. Just wondering, not freaked out or anything. No weirdness, but certainly not my normal thought processes.
I undid my pants and started playing with myself. To this day, I have no understanding of how I was able to do that. I was just no big deal in that moment. Just the next step toward getting my equipment working again. Which I absolutely wanted, no matter what.
And nothing happened. I couldn’t imagine Playboy centerfolds while Mom was sitting right there! The thing is, I had seen Mom in a bikini, no big deal. Until now. Now my brain took the bikini mental image and merged it with the centerfold mental image. And things started to happen. Quickly. I came within a minute.
Which neither of us expected. I opened my eyes to a mess in my hand, and now Mom had the deer-in-the-headlights look. That was a looooooooooong moment. I finally broke the spell, saying, “I need to clean up.” I got up and waddled to the bathroom with my pants half down. When I returned, clothes put back together again, Mom hadn’t moved, so I sat back where I had been and looked at her again.
I don’t recall either of us blushing. It felt like, well, “Now we’re here!”. Mom said, calmly, “You sure didn’t need any help!” I was going to say No, but instead I said she did help. I wanted to say she helped just by accepting me and my situation with love, by being there, by being willing to help. But I didn’t say any of that. Nope. You know what I said instead, “I was picturing you in your bikini, like a Playboy centerfold.”. As straightforward as that.
Deer, headlights, whatever. This happens when new big things occur. It wasn’t really an awkward moment, but more like a processing moment. The thing is, I had never thought of Mom as a sexual being until that evening. Never before. Now I did. Sure, I knew she looked good, and I knew men chased her. But that was them, not me. I was a kid. She was so much older. Mom was Mom! Then I became a bit more than a kid, one who was hurting and in need.
The silence went on a bit too long for me, so I asked, “Was that OK for me to do? Are you OK with it?” She said, “It’s fine. I’m glad things went well for you, but I think they can get even better.” I asked, “How?” She said, “Lubrication.” I said, “I know about that. I use soap in the shower.” She said, “Soap works, but skin lotion is better. When you next do your shopping, get some with a scent you can tolerate. That may also help prevent sensation loss in the future.” “OK,” I replied.
I thought that was the end of the conversation. I was fine. Life was fine. Mom was fine. Everything was fine.
But no, Mom went on to say, “Women make their own lubrication, but sometimes it isn’t enough, so having something more nearby helps.” Oh. Right. This suddenly felt like we were at the beginning of The Talk. Which I had never been given, owing to the family chaos and my behavioral problems.
Strange as it may be, having The Talk right after having been watched masturbating was not a big deal. Having it somewhat late at age 16 was odd, but nothing more. Still living in the not-weird zone. I was curious. I asked questions. Mom answered them all, then answered the ones I hadn’t known to ask. We talked about kindness, consent, arousal, flirting, periods, hormones, and so many other things. We talked about The Deed Itself and forms of birth control We talked for hours.
It got late. We got tired. We agreed it was time to sleep, and promised to continue the conversation. The next evening, we again talked over dinner. Covered some questions, then I asked her, “How was it with Dad?” Where “it” was “sex”, but I wasn’t quite able to use the word directly. She didn’t get into the nitty-gritty details, but it was great seeing her smile when talking about Dad and their romance, despite the eight years since their divorce (half my life ago, at that time!).
We did the dishes, watched TV, then headed off to sleep. But I didn’t fall to sleep right away. I wasn’t just thinking of Mom as a sexual being. I was imagining her having sex with Dad, aided by the new knowledge details she had shared. I was horny, wanting to masturbate for fun, rather than to punch through depression. So, bold as hell, I walked into her bedroom and asked if I could borrow her skin lotion. She grinned, and said it would make me smell like a woman, and that I should wait and get my own. I said I’d take a shower in the morning. She said OK.
I went into the bathroom, got down to business, and had a fun and slippery time. But yup, I sure did smell way too pretty. So I washed up at the sink, rather than waiting to shower in the morning. When I walked out of the bathroom, Mom was sitting on the edge of her bed grinning, and said, “I warned you about the smell!”. I said, “It smells fine on you, why not on me?” She replied, “I use a lot less.”
Huh? She then told me, barely avoiding giggling, that the lotion tube makes a little farting sound when squeezed, and she heard it several times while I was in the bathroom. And that when I went shopping for my lotion, I should also buy a replacement tube for her. I was so focused on fapping that I hadn’t noticed the sound! We broke into laughter, then went to sleep.
I accumulated more questions the next day, and I asked them during dinner. Then I asked her if she still masturbates, and she said, “Yes, but not nearly as often as you!”. Then I asked if I could see her masturbate. Yup, another long-ish pause for processing. Then she said, “OK, but not tonight. Let’s wait for Friday, so we have more time for it and to talk.”
Normally, when Mom came home from work, she changed from “work clothes” to “house clothes”, and then later to “bed clothes”. When she came home Friday, she changed directly into her regular bed clothes, a flannel nightgown that came to mid-thigh, with her terrycloth bathrobe over it. We sometimes had breakfast in our PJs, but never dinner. I was not in my PJs, which felt odd, though I was the one dressed normally.
After dinner we went to the couch, as we often did to watch TV. But this time it was to talk. She shared her feelings, of feeling vulnerable, of feeling too aware of her aging body, of worrying if what she had agreed to was right. Then she said her feelings changed nothing, but that she wanted me to know what was going on within her, that I should be aware, and if I ever felt unaware, that I should ask, never assume.
In that moment I grew a little bit. I had been eagerly looking forward to learning about female masturbation, and to seeing Mom masturbate, but I realized I hadn’t been very attentive to her, her feelings, her needs and wants. We’d always been supportive of each other, and were building a solid adult friendship, but this was another level, something much more personal. It made the Mother-Son relationship seem almost superficial. I had to see her as her own person, separate from me. This was adult caring. The closest of friends.
But it was more than that. It also meant I needed to be attentive to my own feelings, not merely reactive or bewildered. Adult feelings. Treated responsibly and respectfully. I shared my realizations with Mom, and she glowed like I had given her a gift. She took my hand, stood up and said, “I don’t masturbate on the couch, but on my bed.”
She piled her pillows in the middle of her headboard, leaned against them, opened her robe, lifted her nightgown, and went to town on herself. Much as I had done on the couch before. She shushed me when I started to ask questions, reminding me that she was showing me, and we’d talk after. I was spellbound. She closed her eyes and started breathing deeper. I leaned in closer. Many things from The Talk were being made real right in front of me. Women do make their own lubricant! The clitoris really does swell like a tiny penis! The labia do swell and change color!
Mom was starting to glow, her face becoming flushed, her breathing more rapidly. I was also breathing heavier! It was amazing. Her hands moved faster, and then I was surprised when she pushed two fingers inside herself. That wasn’t part of The Talk! I mean, fingering was, but not self-fingering! Then she held her breath and started making soft grunting sounds, which I knew was her orgasm arriving. It lasted for maybe a minute. I was even more amazed.
During all of this, I was so fascinated that I wasn’t even aroused myself! I was so focused on Mom. As her breathing returned to normal, she pulled down her nightgown, sat up straight, and calmly asked, “Any questions?”
“Yes. I smelled something while you were masturbating. May I smell your hand?” She held her hand out to me, and I sniffed her aroma. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Earthy. Musty. Rich. Very different from my cum.
There were other questions along these lines. How her body felt to her, how it changed. Did her orgasm affect her like mine affected me. It was kind of technical, but I finally did run out of questions. I told her just how curious and fascinated I had been, enthralled even, and I thanked her profusely.
Then everything hit me all at once. Suddenly I was totally aroused. Way aroused. “Mom, I need to make a trip to the bathroom.” “You can stay here, if you like.” For the second time, I masturbated in front of my Mom, this time with her own smell fresh in my mind.
Holy crap. Saying it like this is amazing! I’m not going to edit this. I want it to be what it is. It feels so good actually telling it like a story. Sharing it. I have no clue if my recall is perfect, if the words are correct, but the events and feelings absolutely are, though I have no doubt my brain has sculpted the memories over time.
Yes, there’s lots more to share. But not now. I’m so turned on. The memories are so vivid. Gotta go choke the chicken!
I loooove this story leading up to that punchline, I laughed out loud when I read that final sentence, hahaha!
Thanks so much for sharing BobC, really kind of you to take the time to write all of that, it’s very much appreciated, and I’m glad it got you going as well hehe. You know, honestly it’s really interesting the overlap between you and DesertFox’s story, isn’t it? I was reading your story with a view to what might need tweaking about my upcoming comic, and really there’s nothing – it’s already consistent with this ‘vibe’, this approach of your mother and the type of conversations therein.
If it’s alright, I’m writing a few tiny references into the comic, like the ‘matter-of-fact’ observations and a few lil bits to keep us going in the right direction. I like my comics to be guided by true stories; they’re always the best, most crazy … I mean if you’ve read my work you’ll have read a lot of real-life conversations and silliness and cripplingly awkwardly sexy stuff too! But yes even if we do nothing more than provide a blank and anonymous canvas for you to continue this absurdly gripping story, I think we’re doing well. Please do continue if you feel that’s okay to do so.