Incest stories, Mother’s Intuition, A lesson learned, I can’t take my eyes off of him. More and more I find myself stealing glances at him, sometimes hiding behind curtains or while at the pool, peering over the top of a book I pretend to read. He’s just so gorgeous. Six-foot one, 210lbs. A swimmers build with the broad muscular shoulders and well-defined, powerful triceps. Tapering down to a slim waist and cobbled abdomen.
Doing his swim training he is shirtless, and every muscle and tendon ripples with his slightest exertion. Those long, thick legs are tanned and toned. The quads and calfs flex with each stride. He wears only the briefest of Speedos with no suggestion of modesty, his package obvious even when he’s alone and working-out. On the pool deck, the sun catches beads of water on his golden body and gives an appearance of an aura. He is the prototypical tall dark and handsome.
I’m always tempted to step up with a cool pitcher of lemonade, (maybe it should be beer,) or warm towels or sunscreen. Anything to draw nearer to him and let him see that I’m interested. Is it so wrong to find an eighteen year old to be so sexy, even if I’m almost twice his age- and his mother!?
I had him young. I was only sixteen when I got pregnant at my first drinking party. There was too much alcohol and too many boys to even pinpoint the father, and nobody stepped-up to volunteer. My foster parents gave up on me and from that day on it was just him and me. Our bond was always deeper than just mother/son. Atleast to me. He was my world and I was his protector. Now I find my body reacting to his touch or smile in an unseemly, erotic manner.
I daydream when he’s sitting across from me. My hand lingers when we exchange any item. I listen at his bedroom door, and leave mine ajar when dressing. I’m slipping into a strange, slightly perverted, loss of self-control. I truly believe that I want to have sex with him and more than that, I want him to be the aggressor.
I feel like if he were to make a move on me or better yet, to force himself on me; I could more easily mollify the incest taboo and that worst possible disregard of the maternal bond. I can let myself “give-in” if it seems like he is “taking” me.
For months now, I masturbate day and night, sometimes when we are separated by only one thin wall. I imagine him forcing himself on me, or tying me down, or sometimes, blackmailing me to pleasure him in all my slutty, “motherly” ways. I am tormented by inner demons. I will always be his Mom. But I want him to see me as a sexual obsession, as he is for me.
I wear my pitch-black hair long and full like the women whose posters adorn his wall. My 34Cs are natural and still well-rounded for my age and my skimpy outfits are meant for his eyes. When at the pool with him, I wear bikinis and sheer cover-ups, and I have joined him in weight training and Isometrics. This keeps me close to him while we both sweat in short, tight outfits and serves as additional inspiration to keep my own body in good shape. I pedal about fifty miles a day on a stationary bike and can knock-out 100 sit-ups in two minutes. I also bench press and leg press to tighten things from top to bottom. And I usually wear heels, to give my butt that certain jiggle that all men notice.