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College boys are cocky, but never cocky enough. They have no idea what they are capable of.

A while ago, I checked my son’s iPhone – a mother has to be sure her son is safe – and found that he was getting and sending texts like these:

“Man, I jerked off twice yesterday.” “Loser, I came three times. Massive load each time.”

Appalling. This had to change. So much potential. All of it wasted on socks and Kleenex.

I had to rethink my wardrobe. I’d been dressing out of Victoria’s Secret, to prepare him for all those whores in the world. But that was too subtle for my new plans, so I got a dozen outfits from Frederick’s of Hollywood. I wanted him to see that the biggest whore of all was with him at home.

The day he said, “Damn, mom, you look like a hooker,” I knew he was ready to take the plunge.

We had one of those “talks”. More or a workout, really. But it was all good, and it’s gotten better every day.

Sure, I rode him. I rode him a lot. It was the only way to get results. I used to have to wait while he took ten minutes finding my G-spot. Now he hits it first time, every time.

Worth it for him, too. Watching your Mommy flush, feeling her hard nipples all over your chest while she spasms, and then taking her weight as she collapses in your arms, and keep fucking – there’s nothing like it, he says.

Now he was hard whenever he was home. Then I started slipping my panties into his lunch box and texting him sexy pics while he was in class. His professors noticed he couldn’t concentrate worth a damn, even Dr. Slocum, the little tart. The blood cells that might be in his brain were too busy elsewhere.

So I told the dean I wanted my boy to do some work-study in the “family business”, that it’d be much harder for him working under me. That gave me a chance to improve his self-image, especially concerning his hard-on. He was shy about it, at first, but now he flaunts it, finds ways to wave it in my face, or press it up against my ass. Totally inappropriate.

God, I love it. I bought him some spandex running shorts, and that’s all he wears now. When they’re wet with pre-cum (pretty much all the time), I can see everything. I swear to god his balls pulse when he ogles me in my new outfits. 

I get a Frederick’s of Hollywood shipment every day, to give him something new to look at or to replace something he’s torn up. Their stuff is so flimsy. Most of their outfits don’t make it through one of our fuck sessions.

I used to tell him he was my own private Chippendale, but he’s too raunchy for that now. Every day, we compete to see who can dress the skankiest. It’s a friendly competition. Very, very friendly.

He gave up his girlfriend, then he gave up dating. He was too busy scouting out new ways to make Mommy climax. No way I can fall asleep now unless I’ve cum on his cock (or his fingers or his tongue) at least six times.

He always cums with me. And when I’m lying there, freshly fucked and totally exhausted, he’ll just let his eyes roam over my body and stroke that big dick of his till he’s blasted me with creamy jizz from head to toe. Such stamina. Mommy and her bad boy stick together.

And it’s just been a month. Another advantage of home work-study is that I can make sure he’s properly hydrated. You might think that “gallons of cum” is an exaggeration, but, take it from a proud Mommy, it’s not. So I’ve always got ice tea and energy drinks for him. I slipped a Cialis into his glass today, for the first time. I want to kick it up another notch.

He doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve booked the honeymoon suite at the Hyatt for us the next couple of nights. I’m going to have to tip house-keeping extra to change the sheets twice a day, but it will be worth it.

There will be a heart-shaped hot tub, champagne, and more Cialis, lots of it. When he’s done frosting me tomorrow, I’m going to make him lick it all up, before I let him he fuck me again. By the time he’s done feasting on our juices, his eyes will roll back in his head, and he’ll fuck me like a maniac. (Those times are the best. He’s like a fucking machine. He won’t tell me what’s he’s thinking about.)