A grown son seduces his mother

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I started working illegally the summer I was 13, hauling cinder blocks for a friend’s dad, who owned a small construction company. The work was grueling, but handing cinder blocks up overhead repeatedly for 8 hours a day put me in great shape to play football that fall.

I’d always been close with my mom, as so many of us with a stay-at-home parent tend to be. Mom was the one consistent presence in my life, and was like deity to me: the source of my life, my provider, my healer, and my protector.

I remember a line from the movie The Crow: ‘Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children.’ That line still evokes fond memories of my mother. Can there be a love purer than that between mother and child?

I was a pretty good kid, in hindsight. I got good grades (honor society all throughout high school), was active in sports and other activities, and had a path for my life planned in the Army at an early age. Sure, I liked to party a bit — beer and weed, mostly, but nothing that ever caused any legal trouble.

A lot of that, I credit to my mom. Ours was a “you’re going to do it anyway, so I’d rather you and your friends did it here” house. Mom was, in many ways, surprisingly permissive, though in other ways, she could be surprisingly rigid, too. She was a product of her own upbringing, I suppose.

I remember once during my senior year in high school, mom walked in on me while I was masturbating to a porn mag. I swore that my bedroom door was locked, but it suddenly swung open and she stepped in to the sight of me laying on my bed, pleasuring myself. I quickly tried to cover up and remove the magazine from her sight.

She ducked out quickly and closed the door without a word, but later told me that I shouldn’t touch myself, that it was wrong. I was confused by this; snooping in my mom’s closet years earlier, I had found a book of Scandinavian erotica. I had seen mom on multiple occasions, laying in her bed under the covers, reading the book, which was called Love 1 & 2. I found it exciting to think that mom read, and was probably aroused by, the stories. I couldn’t understand, though, why she would read such things without giving herself release.

When she told me masturbating was wrong, I remember feeling that I’d let her down, that I’d somehow been bad. In my own way, even as a teenager and into my adulthood, I guess I never stopped wanting my mom’s approval.

On the other end of the spectrum, mom didn’t have any sort of nudity prohibitions. Many times, while she was bathing, she’d call for me to bring her something. Because of this, mom was the first woman I ever saw nude. She made no effort to cover herself up, and I was able to see her full brunette bush and firm C-cup breasts, tipped with light brown nipples that were usually erect, and appreciate her slender body, relaxed in the tub. While I stood there, she would talk as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

As I developed sexually, I would try not to let my new-found interest in her body show. Is there anything as compelling as the first experiences of nudity with the opposite sex? I began to initiate attempts to see mom nude; even if she didn’t ask for anything, I’d poke my head in, asking if she might like a cup of tea while she bathed, all the while gaining the mental images of my lovely mother, naked and dripping wet in the tub.

As you can imagine, there were many times that I pictured mom as I masturbated. Did I feel guilty over this ‘wrong’ behavior, and fantasizing about my mom? In a way, yes. I always wanted to be her ‘gode pojke’, her good boy. But I also didn’t want to change what I was doing. I could keep a secret.

*****

After returning from the Army, I got a job working for a fairly large local employer. Dozens of young adults in our 20s worked there. As such, it was very common for co-workers to become romantically or sexually involved. That was the case with Wendy. One Friday night, as was a typical custom, a group of us would meet for drinks after work.

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