Bath Time

I grew up a momma's boy.

I was the oldest and my mother lavished attention on me that I know my younger brothers never received. For as long as I can remember my mother bathed me in the tub in the evening. Even when most kids reached an age where they are encouraged to bathe themselves, my mother continued to bathe me.

She always wore a robe, because, she said, she didn't want her clothes wet. It didn't seem strange to me at all, but by the time I was ten, I started to enjoy her attention.

I discovered sex at an early age, as do many kids, I suppose. The first time I got off was while I was with my cub scout den mother. She sat on the floor wearing a dress and I was laying behind her with my legs under a love chair. Her legs were under her, one outstretched and the other behind her, and her stocking foot was near my face as she read to the group of kids in a circle around her. I pressed my crotch into the floor enjoying the feeling as I stared at her foot. The orgasm that surged through me was surprising and from that moment on, I was determined to experience it again. I knew there was something magical about my cock.

I knew, too, the magical feeling was somehow tied to my perception of adult women.

By the time I was twelve, I experienced a guilty pleasure every night when my mother ran the washcloth over my body. As always, she washed my hair and face first, and then I stood as she washed my ass, and then my genitals. I was intensely embarrassed the first time my dick grew hard as she washed me. My mother ignored my discomfort and gently ran her soapy hands between my thighs and then rinsed me with a saucepan of warm water.

Occasionally her robe opened as she washed me, and those times I was treated to a view of my mother naked. My mother was very beautiful, at least in my eyes. She was full-figured with large breasts and a hairy bush of dark blonde hair. If her robe opened, she would casually close it with a slight smile, aware that I was staring but treating it as nothing.

Then, one evening, she left her robe open as she continued. I stood trembling as she ran her soapy bare hand between my buttocks and over my asshole. She washed my hard little dick with the gentlest of squeezes, and without so much as a comforting look, slowly stroked me until I came. I shook with pleasure but of course I was too young to shoot any cum. She finished me and rinsed me as if nothing had happened, and then closed her robe as she bid me step from the tub into the fluffy towel she used to dry me.

My mother was English so she preferred I call her "Mummy" rather than "Mommy." She insisted on this even when (and perhaps especially when) my friends were around, and though I resented it as I grew older, she did not relent.

Every night after she gave that hand job, I craved another. Soon, maybe a few weeks or a month later, she did it again. Again, she allowed her robe to come open and I delighted with the sight of her naked body. I stared lustfully as she slowly jerked me off with her soapy hand.

We never spoke of it. I was afraid to admit anything was the least bit out of the ordinary lest I break the spell and she quit.

A few months later, my parents divorced.

My mother and my two brothers and I went to live with my grandmother in England.

Things were very different there. My grandmother lived in an old house that had no bathroom and only cold running water in the kitchen. Bath times now were in an old metal tub in the living room before a coal fire. My mother heated water on the stove and filled the tub a few pots at a time until there was enough bathwater to bathe. She bathed my brothers first, and then she bathed me. My grandmother helped with my two younger brothers who were five and ten years younger than me, but she scolded my mother for bathing me. In my grandmother's estimation, I had long ago reached the age where I should be bathing myself.

I was thankful that my mother disagreed, and she continued to bath me. And with the same frequency, my mother pleasured my young cock with her soapy hand.

I attended an all-boys school and was bullied mercilessly for being American, and doubtless for being a soft momma's boy, as well. We sat in pairs in class, desks joined, and my desk mate in maths class was a fellow misfit. We sat in the back of the row and the teacher couldn't see us from his desk at the head of our row. During quiet periods when we were supposed to be studying, my desk mate would regale me with lurid tales of his sexcapades with his girlfriend. I had no clue what he was talking about most of the time. When he whispered to me one day about "wanking off" I had not the foggiest notion of what he meant.

When he explained, I immediately realized that was what my mother had been doing to me. I didn't want to admit to that, so I again feigned ignorance. My desk mate, to my horror, furtively unzipped his pants and took out his cock.

"Like this," he said, and he began playing with himself. I looked around the class, but all of our classmates were industriously working with their heads down. I watched my desk mate slowly stroking and I asked if I could do it. He removed his hand and I took his cock in my hand and did what my mother had done for me. He loved it. I was shocked when he came in my hand.

"Just wipe it in your pocket," he said. So I did.

I had finally learned the secret, and I was eager to practice on myself. Why I hadn't learned to masturbate from my mother's attentions, I can't say, but now the light had finally clicked on.

I'll continue the rest of the story in a different confession.