Mother Knows Best

I catch them in my bedroom.

Not the daughter's bedroom, not the living room—my bedroom. In my bed. Like they have no respect for anything.

Lily is on top. The boy—Marcus, her boyfriend of three months—is underneath her, hands on her hips, clearly mid-thrust.

They freeze when the door opens.

"Mom!" Lily scrambles off him, grabbing sheets, trying to cover herself. "I can explain—"

"Can you?" I step inside. Close the door. "Because it looks pretty self-explanatory."

I'm forty-seven years old.

Divorced, single, running a household on my own. My daughter is twenty-two, home for the summer between graduate school semesters. I've met Marcus twice—polite, handsome, clearly smitten with Lily.

I understand the appeal. What I don't understand is the disrespect.

"My bed?" I cross my arms. "Really?"

"We thought you were at work—"

"I came home early." I look at Marcus, still lying there frozen, still visibly hard despite his terror. "You. Stay there."

"Mrs. Henderson—"

"I said stay." I turn to Lily. "And you. Sit in that chair."

"Mom, what are you—"

"I'm going to teach you something." I walk toward the bed. "Both of you."

Here's what I've noticed:

Young people don't know how to fuck.

They watch too much porn, read too many articles, think they understand something they've barely experienced. They're enthusiastic without skill. Energetic without technique.

My daughter is no different.

I watched her riding Marcus for thirty seconds before I walked in. Bouncing up and down like she was on a pogo stick, hands on his chest for balance. No rhythm. No grinding. No attention to angle or depth.

If she keeps going like this, she'll never have a real orgasm.

Time for a lesson.

"What are you doing?" Lily watches, horrified, as I unbutton my blouse.

"Teaching." The blouse falls. "You clearly need it."

"Mom—"

"You were bouncing on him like a child on a trampoline." My skirt comes off. "No hip motion. No awareness of where his cock hits. No attempt to stimulate yourself while you ride."

"I don't need you to tell me how to—"

"You need someone to tell you." I turn to Marcus. "Has she ever come while on top?"

He's silent. Terrified.

"Answer me."

"...No, ma'am."

"Has she ever come at all? With you?"

Longer silence. Even more terrified.

"That's what I thought." I reach behind me. Unclasp my bra. "Watch closely. Both of you."

I'm not a small woman.

Two-sixty, built for comfort rather than speed. My breasts are large, heavy, sagging with age but still sensitive. My belly is soft, curved, the body of a woman who's lived and birthed and loved.

Marcus stares at me like I'm a hallucination.

Lily stares at me like I've lost my mind.

Maybe I have. But I'm committed now.

"The first thing you need to understand," I tell Lily, climbing onto the bed, "is that sex isn't about performance. It's about sensation."

"Mom, please—"

"Watch." I swing my leg over Marcus. Straddle him. His cock is still hard—young men, god bless them—and I position myself above it.

"You can't be serious," he whispers.

"Dead serious." I sink down.

The sound Marcus makes is educational.

Not the grunt of a young woman bouncing on him, but a deep, guttural moan. I take him all the way in—feel him hit places Lily probably never reached—and I stop.

"This," I tell my daughter, "is where you start. All the way in. Don't move yet."

"I can see—"

"Now clench." I squeeze around him. Marcus gasps. "Internal muscles. Kegels. You've heard of them?"

"Yes—"

"Have you practiced them?"

"...No."

"Start." I squeeze again. Marcus's hands are on my thighs, gripping, desperate. "Feel that? He's already close to losing control, and I haven't even moved yet."

I start to move.

Not bouncing. Grinding. Rolling my hips forward and back, keeping him deep, rubbing my clit against his pelvis.

"This is how you get yourself off while riding." I demonstrate, slow and deliberate. "You're not just fucking him—you're using him. His body is a tool for your pleasure."

"Mom—"

"Watch his face." Marcus's eyes are rolled back. His breathing is ragged. "See how he's responding? He's barely holding on. And I've been going for thirty seconds."

I pick up the pace. Grind harder. Let myself moan—demonstrating what real pleasure sounds like.

"Lily." I'm close now. "Pay attention. This is what an orgasm looks like."

I come on her boyfriend's cock while she watches.

A real orgasm, not a performance. My whole body shakes, my cunt clenches around him, my scream echoes off the walls of my own bedroom.

Marcus comes too—can't help it, the way I'm squeezing—and I feel him pulse inside me, filling me up.

I stay seated. Let the aftershocks fade.

Then I look at my daughter.

"Now you try."

Lily is frozen.

Red-faced. Horrified. But also... something else. Her nipples are hard. Her thighs are pressed together.

"Come here," I say, climbing off Marcus. He's softening, but at his age, he'll recover in minutes. "I'll guide you through it."

"I can't—"

"You can. And you will." I pat the bed. "Unless you want to keep having mediocre sex for the rest of your life."

She hesitates.

Then she walks toward us.

"Wait for him to get hard again." I'm kneeling beside them. "In the meantime, touch yourself. Get ready."

"In front of you?"

"How else am I supposed to teach you?" I reach over. Take her hand. Guide it between her legs. "Slow circles. Find your clit. There—you know where it is."

She starts touching herself. Tentatively.

Marcus is watching. Getting hard again.

"Good. Now—" I position her over him. "Sink down. Slow. Feel every inch."

She does it right this time.

Slow. Controlled. Letting gravity do the work. When she's fully seated, she gasps—a sound of genuine surprise.

"Deeper than before?"

"Yes." Her voice is strained. "How did you—"

"Angle." I adjust her hips. Tilt her pelvis. "Now grind. Like I showed you."

She grinds.

And something shifts.

"Oh." Her eyes go wide. "Oh."

"There it is." I smile. "That's your g-spot. That angle hits it with every movement. Now keep going."

I guide her through it.

Adjusting her rhythm, showing her how to clench, coaching her through the buildup. Marcus is lost—overwhelmed by two women working together, one riding him while the other whispers instructions.

"I'm close." Lily sounds surprised. "I'm actually—Mom, I'm—"

"Then let go." I stroke her hair. "Come on his cock. Show him what you're capable of."

She comes.

Really, truly comes—maybe for the first time in her life. Her body shakes, her voice breaks, tears stream down her face. It goes on and on, wave after wave, while Marcus holds her hips and takes it.

When it's over, she collapses onto his chest.

"Holy shit," she breathes.

"Language." But I'm smiling. "Now. Do you understand?"

"I... yes." She looks up at me. "I understand."

Afterward

Marcus left quickly.

Embarrassed, overwhelmed, mumbling something about calling Lily later. She walked him to the door, kissed his cheek, watched him drive away.

Then she came back to my bedroom.

"That was insane," she said. "You know that, right?"

"Probably." I was already in my robe, stripping the bed. "But you learned something."

"I learned my mother is a better fuck than I am."

"You learned technique." I threw the sheets in the hamper. "The rest is practice."

"And you'll... help? Again?"

I looked at her. My daughter. Flushed, disheveled, already thinking about next time.

"If you need me to." I kissed her forehead. "That's what mothers are for."

Six months later

Lily calls me from grad school.

"I had another one."

"Another what?"

"Orgasm. Like you showed me. On top." She sounds giddy. "Marcus couldn't believe it. He said I'm like a different person."

"You're the same person. Just better educated."

"Thanks to you." She pauses. "Is that weird? Thanking your mom for teaching you to—"

"Yes." I laugh. "But I'll take it anyway."

"Love you, Mom."

"Love you too, sweetheart."

I hang up.

Some lessons are unconventional.

That doesn't make them wrong.

It just makes them effective.