I love you mother dear. Can a son love his mummy too much, even when he’s in his thirties. I think of you when I’m in bed at night. Even with my dear wife in the next bed the rhythm of my hand beneath the bedclothes is for you. Over and over in my mind I relive that latest visit to you. I arrived wanting your naughty eyes to detect how much I was looking forward to seeing you. My shirt was open for you to admire the manliness of my chest. My thin cotton trousers, with nothing on underneath, were meant to reveal the length of my desire to please you. You brought me up well, and you bring me up magnificently well every time we meet. I could tell from the hardening of your nipples that you appreciated my compliment.
I long to show the world my devotion and dedication to you. Please give me the chance. Give a party for your friends. Summon me to you, order me to strip naked, serve your guests as they demand, women and men. Humiliate me to demonstrate your power. Not one clitoris must leave unlicked, not one prick unsucked. Not a single drop of spunk will leave my mouth. But, best of all, tell me to fuck you, let me hear them clap in time with the thrust of my hips between your wide-splayed legs. Be cruel to me. Pull it, bite it, twist them, squeeze them, hurt me, all as proof of my total submission to you. The very thought is bringing me towards the unstoppable. It’s not my hand that’s doing it, I’m being tossed off by my mother-image filled brain.
I wish you were my son!