The Size She Never Knew

Monica and Max cross the boundary and also move on into the future. Hopefully, everyone enjoys it. This is honestly Part 2 & 3 and the completion of their saga, taking place over five years.

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Tommy and Max don't talk about that night until there is a soccer team party a couple weeks later. They've both been drinking a lot and Max's curiosity has gotten the best of him. They are sitting on the patio and Max says, "You made my mom very happy." Tommy looks at him treading cautiously.

"Monica is an amazing woman, she will find the right guy. I know our ages make us incompatible so I won't even try to pretend it isn't more than........me being her boy toy." purposely not using the words 'your mom'.

Max laughs, "Good grief, Boy Toy, really?"

Tommy couldn't look at him. "I don't even know if it was a one time thing, but if I made her feel better, she sure as hell fulfilled my fantasy.......and then some."

Max tensed. "Fuck, I'm afraid to ask, but I'm perverted as well. Tell me what you mean by that."

"Are you sure, I haven't told anyone about that night. It was only going to be to you, and I honestly never thought you'd want to hear it." Tommy leaned back, exhaling. "Are you sure?"

The words hung there, stark and irreversible.

Max blinked. "Go ahead, I feel like you are going burst if you don't."

"Monica gave me the best blowjob I ever had, and it wasn't even close..... She deep throated me. All the way. Like, nose-to-my-pelvis, swallowed-every-inch, I've never--" He shook his head.

A beat of silence. Max should have stopped him. Should have said dude, that's my mom. But his mouth stayed shut, and the silence became permission along with the growing erection in his pants.

"And she swallowed," Tommy continued, his voice dropping. "Didn't even flinch. Looked me in the eye while she did it. Then licked her lips and said yummy." He laughed, disbelieving. "Like it was nothing. Like she hadn't just rearranged my entire understanding of what sex could be."

Max's throat was dry. "Wow, I never would of guessed...............she had those skills." as his mind drifted to an image of his mom smiling and looking back at him with her mouth around his cock.

Tommy said, "It was like she genuinely wanted to do it. Like she was enjoying making me feel that good." He finally met Max's eyes. "You're not weirded out?"

"Maybe a little," Max admitted. "But I told her to go for it; hopefully, you brought her some pleasure as well, from the way she was glowing the next morning I think the answer is a yes to that."

Tommy beamed, "Even if it was a one time thing Max, I'm not sure how that will ever be topped for me." A pause. "Thanks, for allowing it to happen. I don't know why you were cool with it, but... thanks and I owe you big time."

"You don't owe me a thing, you made her happy, genuinely happy, even if it is short lived, which maybe it won't be, you made her feel like hot blooded woman again not some depressed divorcee."

They sat there in silence drinking and Max's thoughts drifted to a forbidden place. He was thinking about the conversation in the car a year ago. The Red Bull can. Seven by seven. His own mother telling him he had a big dick. And now Tommy was sitting here, raving about her mouth like she was some kind of virtuoso.

---

Monica had dinner waiting the next night. Spaghetti, a salad, a bottle of red she'd already opened. She was wearing a loose sweater and yoga pants, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she looked so ordinary that the contrast with what Max now knew made his brain stutter.

"How was your day?" she asked, sliding a plate across the counter.

He sat. Picked up his fork. And then he laughed--a short, involuntary burst that he tried to swallow but couldn't.

Monica's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Nothing."

"That wasn't nothing." She set down her wine glass.

"Tommy and I were at the soccer party last night and caught up, that's all."

She noticed he won't look her in the eye. "Mmhmm." She studied him. The smirk was still there, tugging at the corner of his mouth. "He said something about me, didn't he."

Max focused on his pasta.

"Bad?" She said it like she already knew the answer, and her tone was pure fishing--light, teasing, the same voice she'd used when she asked him to tell me more on the couch.

"No. Not bad." He twirled the pasta on his plate.

"Good?" She leaned forward, elbows on the counter. "Max. What did he say?"

"I'm not repeating it."

"Oh, come on." The wine was loosening her, a flush creeping up her neck. "I haven't had girl talk in fifteen years. You're my stand-in. Spill."

"You're my mom."

"And I'm also the woman who needs some encouragement. Tell me." She was grinning now, but there was something beneath it--a hunger for validation, for proof that she was still desirable, that the night with Tommy hadn't been a fluke. Max recognized it. He'd seen it in her eyes since the divorce.

"He said you deep-throated him," Max said, the words tumbling out fast. "Which he'd never experienced. And you"--he gestured vaguely at his own mouth--"finished. And swallowed. Which he'd also never experienced."

Monica's cheeks went pink. But she didn't look away. "Yeah," she said, almost to herself. "Men always complimented me on that skill."

The kitchen went quiet.

Max took a long sip of water. "Doubt that'll ever happen to me," he muttered, aiming for a joke, aiming to puncture the tension.

Monica looked at him. "Yeah," she said slowly. "That would be a challenge. Even for my skills."

The words landed between them.

Did she just say that?

Max's face went hot. He watched her realize what she'd said, watched the flicker of shock cross her features. But she didn't backtrack.

"I'm willing to challenge myself," she added.

His eyes went wide. He couldn't form words. The fork in his hand was frozen halfway to his mouth.

"Max?" Her voice was softer now. "Is this--should I not have--"

"You can't just say stuff like that..........unless you are serious" he managed as his voice cracks on the unless.

"I know." She set her wine glass down with a trembling hand. She stands up and walks over. She gets on her knees not saying a word as Max scoots his chair sideways. Neither one is thinking with their logical brain at this point as their primal urges win out.

"Let me see," she said.

"Mom--"

"Let me see what you have. I've only seen it soft. And that was a year ago." Her voice dropped. "Let's see if you exaggerated to me in the car last year. Were you fibbing Max," looking up at him with doe eyes "Were you lying to me or telling the truth?" She can see he is hard through his pants.

His hands move to his waistband. Hesitated. She didn't look away.

He unbuttons his jeans. The zipper rasps down--the same sound she'd heard when Tommy undid her jeans, and the parallel made her press her thighs together. Max lifts his hips and push the denim down. His boxer briefs were tented, the outline unmistakable.

"Stand up," she breathed.

He does

She pulls the waistband down.

His erection sprang free. Monica's breath left her in a soft oh.

Seven inches, he'd said. But numbers were abstract until they were right in front of you, until you were staring at a cock so thick your fingers wouldn't meet around it--and she knew because she wrapped her hand around his shaft and her fingertips didn't touch. The head was a deep, flushed rose, the shaft veined, the weight of him substantial in her palm. He was fully hard, and she could feel his pulse beating against her fingers. "My god Max, it's fucking magnificent. Holy

shit, it is so thick!"

"You're not disappointed then."

"Oh my god, you are bigger than any man I've ever been with. You're so much thicker than Tommy, your dad, and all the boyfriends I ever saw," she murmured, and the comparison slipped out before she could stop it.

Max's dick twitched.

"Mom, you don't have to--"

She knelt.

The kitchen tile was cold against her knees, but she didn't register it. Her focus had narrowed to the inches in front of her face. She licked her lips. Wrapped both hands around his base--she needed both--and guided him toward her mouth.

Tongue first. Flat against the underside, tracing that prominent vein from base to tip. Max made a strangled sound above her. She circled the head, tasting salt and skin, then sealed her lips around the glans and sucked.

"Fuck." His hand found the counter for balance.

She took him deeper. Two inches. Three. Her jaw stretched to accommodate his girth, and she breathed through her nose, relaxing her throat the way she'd learned decades ago. Four inches. The head hit the back of her soft palate, and she paused, adjusting.

Then she pushed further.

Five inches. Her throat constricted around him, a reflexive gag that she swallowed down with practiced control. But the last two inches would not go. His girth was the problem. Six and a half inches around was more than her throat could accommodate, and she felt herself hit the limit, her lips stretched wide around his shaft, her nose still an inch from his pelvis.

She pulled back, gasping.

"Too thick," she said, and there was awe in her voice. "God, Max. You're too thick."

"Are you okay?" He was panting, gripping the counter like it was keeping him alive.

"More than okay." She stroked what she couldn't swallow, her hand slick with her own saliva. "But I can't--I can't deep-throat you. I tried. I really tried."

His laugh was shaky. "I've never had a girl even go down half of what you just did, that felt incredible."

"I underestimated you." She looked up at him, lips swollen, eyes bright. "This is still going to be the best blowjob you've ever gotten. I just can't fit all of you."

She swallowed him again--not all the way, but enough. Her hands worked the base while her mouth took what it could, and she used every trick she'd accumulated over the years: the swirl of tongue around the ridge, the gentle scrape of teeth along the shaft, the humming deep in her throat that made him groan. Her jaw ached. Her eyes watered. She didn't stop. She found a rhythm and built it, layer by layer, until his hips were rocking forward to meet her mouth and his breathing had gone ragged.

"Mom, I'm--I'm close--where--"

She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips brushing his tip. "I want it."

His eyes rolled back.

She took him as deep as she could--shy of the full length but enough to feel full, enough to feel claimed--and when he came, it was a flood. Hot and thick, pulsing against her tongue in spurts that went on and on. She swallowed. Swallowed again. Some escaped, a thin trickle down her chin, and she wiped it with the back of her hand.

She pulled off him with a wet pop and sat back on her heels.

Max stared down at her, chest heaving. His erection was still half-hard, glistening with her saliva. He looked wrecked.

"Holy shit," he said.

Monica wiped her chin again. Smiled.

***********************************************

Monica stayed on her knees a moment longer. Her jaw ached. Her mouth felt like she'd just been to the dentist, as she moved her jaw back and forth. But the look on Max's face--wrecked, reverent, still half-hard and glistening--made her feel like a panther sprawled across a branch, tail flicking, entirely unhurried. She could feel this feral side to her that had been locked up with no place to go coming out of its cage.

"Do I get something in return?"

His eyes focused. "Of course. What do you want?"

"You have a mouth as well." She pushed herself upright, knees cracking, and walked toward the living room couch without looking back. Her yoga pants were already low on her hips. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and shucked them down as she moved, stepping out of them like a second skin.

Max followed. She could hear his bare feet on the hardwood, the soft whisper of his jeans still pooled around his ankles, abandoned.

She settled onto the couch, legs spread, back against the cushions. The posture was deliberate.

Max knelt between her thighs. He was still breathing hard. His cock hung soft now, thick and heavy against his thigh, and she let her gaze linger on it. Even limp, it was substantial. The thought of it inside her sent a pulse through her core.

"I need to tell you something," he said.

Her eyebrow arched.

"I don't have a lot of experience with this. With..." He gestured at her spread legs, the dark curls, the gleam already visible. "I've heard girls talk. I know Tommy is pretty good at it."

Monica smiled. "Yes, he was." She reached down, cupping his jaw, then let her fingers trail to his still-soft dick. She held it gently, feeling the heft. "But he also doesn't have this."

Max's breath caught. Mystified at this side of his mom.

"Don't worry," she murmured. "Just listen to my commands and obey. You'll be better than him in no time."

He stared at her. She could see the internal conflict flickering--the weirdness of the position considering he came from there along with all the other weirdness. She saw all of it cross his face.

She looks down at him and says "I hope I look ok down there, you look like a deer in headlights."

"I'm surprised."

A little bit of worry creeps in, "Is something wrong?

"I've only been with Chloe and Chelsea, I wasn't expecting your vagina", she starts to worry about the comparison to two 19 year olds, "to be so perfect looking."

"Oh.....well I'm glad you like it. It's been celibate for a while now" chuckling under her breath, but secretly elated that anybody his age would think her 42 year old pussy was perfect. "By the way, call it a pussy, we aren't at the doctor's office."

He grins back at her, "You look really tight..........this is so weird Mom."

She heard herself speak. "Call me Monica. Or anything--just not--"

"Monica," he said, testing it. Panting. "Yeah. Okay."

"Say it again."

"Monica." His tongue lowered down.

The first contact was hesitant--a flat, uncertain swipe that landed more on her inner thigh than anywhere useful. She didn't correct him yet. She let him explore. His second attempt found her labia, and she felt the hot puff of his breath, the slight tremor in his jaw.

"Higher," she said.

He adjusted.

"Slower. Let your tongue be soft."

A huff of laughter against her, and then he obeyed. The flat of his tongue dragged up her slit, and this time, the pressure was right. Her hips tilted, offering more.

"There. Do that again."

He did. Three times, four, finding a rhythm. His hands gripped her thighs, and she felt the slight scratch of his stubble against her inner skin. She didn't mind. The contrast--soft tongue, rough cheek--made her stomach tighten.

"Now back to my clit. It's the--"

Monica's head dropped back. "Oh, fuck. Yes. Like that."

He took direction well. When she told him harder, he went harder. When she told him to use his fingers, he slid two inside her without hesitation, curling them upward until she gasped. When she warned him she was close, he didn't speed up or change rhythm--he kept doing exactly what he was doing, and that consistency was what broke her.

The orgasm rolled through her like a wave of heat. Her thighs clamped around his head, and she heard herself make a sound--half moan, half laugh--that she'd never made before. He kept his mouth on her through all of it, riding the spasms, only pulling back when she went slack against the cushions.

He looked up at her, chin glistening. His eyes were dark, pupils blown.

His voice was hoarse. "Do you want me inside you?"

She nodded. The word "yes" came out as a whisper.

He stood, and she watched him strip off his shirt. His lanky frame had filled out--she'd noticed it before, but now, with the context of what was about to happen, the lean muscle of his chest and abdomen looked different.

They made it to the edge of her bed before he pulled her down. She landed on her back, and he was above her, positioning himself. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, and she felt the stretch before he'd even pushed inside.

Monica reached down between them and wrapped her fingers around his still-slick length, guiding the head of him through her folds. The contact made her breath catch. She was soaked, swollen, the remnants of her orgasm still coating her inner thighs.

"Slow," she said. "You're not small, Max."

"I know."

"You don't know until you're inside someone. Trust me."

She positioned him at her entrance. The broad crown of his cock pressed against her, and even that--just the pressure of him there, not yet inside--made her stomach tighten. She looked down at where they were joined, at the visual impossibility of it, and felt a flutter of genuine nervousness.

"Push. Just a little."

He did.

The first inch stretched her open. Monica's mouth fell open, a silent gasp. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and she forced herself to breathe, to relax, to let her body accept him. The second inch made her make a sound--something between a moan and a whimper.

"Too much?" He was shaking, holding himself back.

"No. Just--give me a second."

Her inner walls fluttered around him, adjusting. She'd had two children, but that was decades ago, and this--this was different. This was a stretch she felt in her spine, a fullness that radiated outward. By the third inch, she was making sounds she couldn't control. Small, breathy noises that escaped on every exhale.

"God, Max." She looked down at where they were joined and saw he still had inches to go. "You're so--I can feel every inch of--"

"Wow, you are tighter than Chloe and Chelsea," knowing that compliment would land with the impact he wanted.

She grinned, breathless. "I'm full. I'm so full."

He sank deeper. The head of him nudged against her cervix, a pressure that teetered between pleasure and discomfort. Her inner walls were stretched to their limit, gripping him, pulsing around his girth. She'd never been with a man this size. She'd thought she'd known what sex was. This was a redefinition.

He started to move.

Shallow thrusts at first, barely withdrawing, more of a grind than a stroke. Her body adjusted, accommodating him, and the discomfort melted into something else. Something that built in her pelvis like a second heartbeat. She watched his face--the concentration, the wonder, the way his jaw went slack every time he bottomed out.

"Faster," she said.

His rhythm picked up. The sound of their bodies filled the room--the wet slide of him inside her, the slap of his hips against her thighs. She wrapped her legs around his waist, changing the angle, and the new position made him hit a spot that made her vision blur.

"Right there. Right fucking there."

He kept hitting it. With every thrust, that spot lit up. She was climbing again, faster than she'd expected, the orgasm building like a scream behind her ribcage. She could feel herself tightening around him, her body preparing for the fall.

"Max--don't stop--I'm--"

She came with a cry that was almost a sob. Her nails raked down his back, and she felt her inner walls clamp down around him rhythmically. He groaned, his rhythm faltering, but she gripped his hips and pulled him deeper.

"Keep going. Don't you dare stop."

He didn't. He fucked her through the first orgasm and into the second, which built slower but hit harder--a deep internal shudder that rolled through her entire body. She was dimly aware she was saying his name over and over. Her mind had gone white at the edges, all language stripped away except for that single syllable.

The name, in his mouth, did something to her. Severed the last thread connecting this moment to the kitchen table, the spaghetti, the wine. She wasn't his mother right now. She was a woman getting fucked within an inch of her life by a man who happened to share her DNA.