When she comes into the kitchen, I try to keep my eyes on her face, which is difficult because she’s gorgeous. Of course it’s just physical nuts and bolts, but with a divine hand doing the crafting. Just seeing her move pulls at me on a visceral level. Some women are just built in a way to make a man groan. But my mother is better than most.
I sip my water and try to hold it together. Which is getting more and more difficult of late.
“You should put on some clothes,” I tell her.
Her response is to look at me and roll her eyes. “Why?” she asks, knowing exactly what I’m objecting to. “I’ve always gone round the house nude.”
Desire to simply reach out and touch her puts an edge to my tone: “Maybe because it’s inappropriate? I’m twenty-two now, Mum. Do you think I should really be seeing you naked?”
My mother doesn’t seem to care. All she does is laugh and turn to the fridge.
When she leans forward and reaches in — all taut and lush — the sight of her large breasts in profile drags at my eyes. I look at her body and feel the zing in my cock when she pulls out a carton of apple juice, closes the fridge door, and then walks away.
The roll of her hips is a taunt. My mother’s feminine sway and the sight of her buttocks flexing and swaying makes me want to howl like a hound.
“It doesn’t bother me!” my mother calls back.
No, but she might think differently if she saw the hungry look on my face.
I leave the empty glass on the counter and head up the stairs. I’m on a mission, in desperate need of release. My mother is somewhere downstairs doing whatever it is she’s doing as, knowing it’s wrong and feeling the guilt curdle in the pit of my stomach, I shove my jeans to my knees and crank hard at my dick.
Using the image of my other’s backside I get there quickly. I tug at my dick and picture those globes, imagining I’m squeezing the pliant flesh with my fingers.
It was true, what she’d said, she’s always done it. My mother has always paraded around in the buff. It’s natural, she says. The way we’re meant to be.
And it never used to bother me.
But, just lately, seeing her that way has had an effect.
I’m mad for my mum’s smoking hot body.
###
Her long, soft, dirty-blonde hair doesn’t help at all, either. Nor do her smile, her big blue eyes or the dimples in her cheeks when she grins. And it isn’t much better when she’s dressed. My mother is proud of her figure and wears clothes which show of her assets. She’s at the gym five times a week after work, with yoga at home six mornings out of seven. The result being she’s lean and toned and a pleasure to watch moving. My mother might be forty-five, but passes for thirty.
Inside my head, I fuck into my mother. In this fantasy, I’m a watcher, a voyeur off to one side who soaks up the sight of us rutting. I thrust in from behind while my mother leans forward, tilted at the waist, hips angled so her pussy is perfectly presented. In this one I have her in shoes, a pair of hooker platforms in startling pink, with a lethal heel that add inches to her height. She’s exquisite, one lean thigh tensed while she luses straight arms against to support herself hands, braced against the headboard. One knee is on the mattress, one foot on the floor while she looks back at me over her shoulder. My mother is grinning and loving what I’m doing, breasts swinging until she lifts one hand to maul at her flesh.
I gaze where the slender sweep of her back melts into her waist, the feminine thrust of her buttocks and hips.
Groaning — I can’t stop myself from making the sound — jizm pours out of me while, in my mind’s eye, I see my mother’s abdomen tense, her mouth falling open, eyes glazing as her own orgasm hits her.
I’m tugging my dick, catching the outflow of cum in a tee-shirt I’ve got wrapped round my shaft and the head of my cock. It isn’t ideal, masturbating this way, but the urgency was on me and I didn’t have the patience to undress for a more leisurely wank.
The stuff pumps into the shirt while I stifle my groans. It’s so sweet, such a pleasure, the delight made so much better because the fantasy is so wrong. The illicit nature of it gets me there. My mother, my sweet darling mum, with her body so lithe and supple, her cunt so wet as it clenches around my girth.
But, as usual, as soon as I’m spent the guilt rushes in. My cock oozes jizm and I’m immediately disgusted with myself. I’m a pig and a pervert and ashamed to be standing in my bedroom with my jeans at my shins, the evidence of my perversion a sticky mess corrupting the tee-shirt.
Appalled, I bundle it up and cast it aside, then haul up my jeans to shove the dribbling length out of sight. Wracked by remorse I vow never to do it again, determined this time. It has to stop. I can’t let myself keep on doing it.
But, even as I promise myself there’ll be no more, a part of my mind knows that I’m lying. I might last a day, or perhaps stretch it to two, but I’ll be thinking about her and cranking my shaft soon enough.
I can’t help it. I’m obsessed. I spend most of my time in a fugue while dreaming about fucking into my own mother’s pussy.
###
I’m jealous. That’s what it is. I came home for the long summer vac and discovered my mother had a boyfriend.
My father cheated on her … once.
That she knew about anyway.
After that, he was gone. She hoisted the old man away and set about reinventing herself. That’s when the yoga and gym started up. Three years ago, when I left home for uni, my mother was well down the road to a transformation Carol Vorderman would have envied.
She must have had boyfriends. There had to have been lovers. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking since she got rid of dad. Maybe I didn’t care at the time? Perhaps I was too busy getting on with my own stuff to spare a thought for my mum. I don’t recall thinking about her physical needs at all. I was her son, why would I?
In any event, she kept them away from me and I never knew.
But the knowing about this one is certainly getting to me.
I can’t stand the idea of his hands on her body.
It’s unpleasant, but I’m thinking about them when my mother asks, “Are you all right, Sean?”
I was in the living room, sulking, when she walked in unnoticed.
At the sound of her voice, I look up. For once she’s wearing clothes — ready for a night out with him. It galls me to imagine her stripping down for the man.
I think she looks stunning with her hair all wavy and loose. She’s subtly made up, lips shimmering with pink lip-gloss, eyes ringed with mascara. My mother’s in spiked heels, not the bordello whore’s platforms I had her wear in my fantasy, but a pair of chic Louboutins that put a delicate curve to her calves and make me wish she wasn’t wearing the tight pencil skirt after all. She’s elegant and sexy, stylish and gorgeous. On top, as is her style, she’s got her large bust squeezed into a blouse that can barely take the strain.
I look at her and shrug, eyes lingering — just for a moment — on the deep crease between my mother’s breasts, the little silver pendant I bought her last Christmas nestled in the valley.
The image comes to me. I imagine myself with my face pressed into her cleavage, the picture dissipating when I look at her eyes.
“Yeah,” I reply, sullen.
She pouts with a cocksucker’s moue that twitches my dick; then her lips all pink and puckered cause the dirty slide of jealousy, dripping like liquid shit down a drain, when I imagine those lips round his dick.
“Well, you don’t look all right,” says my mother near the door.
I’m sat in one of the armchairs while she’s standing. We’re both waiting for her mobile to buzz.
“I am,” I reply, snappy because I’m pissed off and petulant. I don’t like being this way but can’t shake the feeling.
“You sure?” she asks, head canting to one side.
The hot sting of tears surprises me. I decide I’ve got to get out of the room before I embarrass myself and give her cause for concern. What I don’t want are her well-intentioned yet probing questions. I nod and rise to my feet while croaking, “Yeah, sure.”
She follows me, heels pecking the kitchen floor tiles.
I’m at the fridge as she approaches. Keeping my back towards her, I reach in for a beer.
Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder.
“You don’t like him, do you?” she says as I turn.
I pop the tab, chagrined at being so obvious, thankful the tears haven’t spilled.
I shrug and take a sip and then say, “It’s none of my business.”
She looks at me for a while. I can’t tell what’s going on behind those eyes, so, nonplussed and awkward at being so physically close to my mother — I entertain a wild notion about leaning in to kiss her mouth — I swig from the can and move away to one side.
She doesn’t let up as I park my backside against the heavy oak table in the middle of the room. “Well, it sort of is, though, isn’t it, Sean? If things get serious.”
She must have seen the blood drain from my face, because my mother hastily goes on to add, “Not that it’s anywhere close to serious, I just mean it as a ‘what-if?’
“There’s no need to think anything different. I’m just saying … That’s all.” Then she sighs and mutters a heartfelt, “Shit,” when her mobile sounds, the word coming out sharp with frustration.
“Later,” she says, pushing the phone under her hair. My mother turns away from me while saying, “We’ll talk.
“Hello?” she continues, murmuring into her mobile. “Yes, I’m ready. I’m coming. See you in a sec.”
I sip beer without tasting it when the door slams closed, guts boiling with animosity towards the man in her company.
###
Tan lines started me off.
My mother took a holiday, late last year, to the Canaries, just before Christmas. I was at home when she returned, when she reverted to her habitual nudity.
Soon after, I noticed the pale outline of what must have been the briefest, most insignificant bikini bottoms ever made. She’d obviously been topless, because her boobs were all tanned — which didn’t faze me at the time. But the sheer eroticism of seeing those pale lines high on her hips gripped me in a way which had me gazing and hard.
The realisation hit me one morning like a physical blow. I stared at the tiny triangle at the apex of the cleft at the top of her buttocks, my mother’s femininity confronting me while the toast turned to glue in my mouth.
Up until then, my mother’s nudity hadn’t been much of an issue, but the tan lines woke my libido. And the beast came up snarling.
One beer goes down easy, so I go for another. I drink and try to push my mother, her nakedness, and thoughts of what she does with her lover out of my head.
I try watching Saturday evening TV, which doesn’t work so I try a reading a book.
Forty minutes after my mother left the house I’m up in my room with porn on the laptop.
I stroke my cock and think about taking my time. I’m going to tease myself with some lesbian stuff first. Watching hot women kiss is one of my faves at the moment — and porn lesbians take some beating when it comes to kissing and tongues.
Nina Hartley is seducing a much younger woman when I hear the front door slam shut.
The sound of it makes me go cold and there’s ice in my veins as I lie on the bed, pre-cum sliding out of my cock.
There’s no real danger my mother will barge in on me, but I still get a fright, and after an appalled pause I snap the laptop shut and roll off the bed.
Then I wipe off my dick and reach for my clothes to investigate my mother’s untimely return.
Something’s not right, and two minutes later I find her in the kitchen with a bottle of red wine on the table, a long-stemmed glass almost full standing next to it.
One look at her face is all I need. She’s standing, arms folded, vibrating with whatever emotion she’s feeling.
My mother’s tortured visage swivels towards me when I walk in. She says, “You don’t have any cigarettes, do you?”
I raise my hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Since when do I smoke?” I reply.
My mother’s tongue clicks off her palette. She rolls her eyes with apparent frustration. “I don’t know,” she sighs in response. “You might have taken it up at uni.”
I watch her lean in to pick up the glass. She glugs half the contents and then tops it off it off.
“What’s up?” I ask, concerned, the fact she asked for a smoke a clue of just how upset she is. My mother took up the habit during the crisis with dad, but gave it up when her fitness jag started.
The epithet confirms her anger when my mother spits her reply: “That fucking wanker, that’s what.”
I’m at a loss for what to say next. I don’t like emotional scenes; I feel uncomfortable and embarrassed and usually avoid any awkwardness, opting for a sweep-it-under-the-carpet attitude. But she’s my mother, and there’s nobody else to help.
“Uhm…” I begin, going to the fridge for a beer. Hoping she’ll say no, I tentatively ask, “Want to talk?”
“It’s over,” she says, face stricken, her tone tugging at me. My mother looks at me and blurts a brittle little laugh. “The wanker’s been two-timing me,” she adds, shaking her head like she can’t believe his cheek. “He knows how much I hate lying and cheating.” Her arms wave and wine spills when she gesticulates wildly. “The one fucking thing … And he does it!”
I follow my mother out of the kitchen. She’s grabbed the bottle and stalked away, the F-bomb a real cause for concern. I know there’s no going back for her now. If he’s done the dirty on my mother, he’s history.
Just ask my dad.
I know I should feel bad for her, and I do, but there’s also a chuckle of delight at the back of my mind. Inside my head a sing-song voice celebrates: It’s over; he cheated; she dumped him.
When I get to the living room she’s already shrugging off her blouse. My mother is muttering away, threats coming through teeth clenched with her rage.
My cock thickens despite my concern when I see my mother’s wobbling breasts, her nipples and areolae exposed, the weighty orbs cantilevered over a quarter-cup bra.
It’s the same effect as the tan lines. I’m hard and fantasising as she unzips the skirt and gives a little shimmy to get it down past her hips.
It’s devastating seeing her like that. She’s down to her underwear but still in the shoes. I look at her and feel a visceral pull, gulping down on the desire to go maul at her tits. It’s all I can do to stop myself hauling my hard-on out into view as lust surges inside me.
“Mum,” I gurgle. “Wuh-what are you doing?”
Wild-eyed and rabid with rage she shrieks, “I hate wearing clothes!
“I’m sorry,” she adds with a gasp. “I didn’t mean to yell at you like that.”
“Duh-do you have to strip in front of me?” I ask, stammering because the view is so sweet and I want her to stop before I do something stupidly reckless.
But, also, I don’t want her to stop. I want to stare at her nudity and crank at my cock ’til it spits.
I’d timed my outburst perfectly — or not, depending on your point of view. My mother ceases her vehement undressing to regard me square on, fists on her hips.
She’s still wearing the bra and the knickers and shoes, her eyes flashing fire. “It’s hardly a striptease,” my mother says.
“It is to me,” I groan in reply as my eyes flick to her underwear packed tight with her pussy.
Her eyebrows go up to her hairline. “What do you mean?” she asks, frowning in puzzlement.
It all gets too much and I slump into a chair. “Jesus, Mum!” I explode, waving the can in the air. “It’s difficult enough for me seeing you nude all the time.
“But look at you now,” I add with a jut of my chin. “Don’t you have any idea at all what you’re doing to me? You’re driving me mental.”
I blow out a sigh, cheeks like balloons. “Your body, Mum…
“Your boobs and your arse and your legs…
“Please,” I gasp. “Can’t you take off those shoes?”
She blinks and looks at her feet. “My shoes?”
It’s obvious she doesn’t have a clue so I groan and swig beer, a dribble of it running down my chin.
“They’re so sexy,” I tell her after wiping a hand over my chin. “I mean, just look at yourself. I don’t know anyone else whose mother thinks it’s acceptable to parade around with her knockers hanging out.”
“But I’ve always gone naked…”
I’m back on my feet and dumping the can on the coffee table before I start waving my arms.
“And it never used to bother me,” I shoot back, beginning to get strident.
“But now it does?” she replies, blinking as it starts to sink in.
I nod, head bobbing quickly. “Yes. Now, it does.”
I can see from her face she’s genuinely surprised. “But I’m your mother,” she says.
“And you’re also the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen in the flesh. You’re so fucking beautiful, Mum.”
And that seemed to do it. I couldn’t have made it any plainer.
My mother gawps back at me, her mouth hanging open. There’s a few seconds silence until I see her eyes flick to the front of my jeans.
A burst of air comes from her. She gasps, “Oh my God!”
And that’s when I realise she’s clocked the hard-on outlined against my jeans. It’s so prominent, there was no way she could miss it.
I’m not small down there anyway, but there was no way my mother could fail to see the effect she had on her son, especially since Nina Hartley’s backside and my mother’s shoes had conspired to leave pre-cum seeping from the eye of my cock. I follow the line of her stare and groan when confronted with a stain like a map of Africa infusing the faded denim.
“Oh Jesus, Oh God,” my mother blasphemes. “What are you thinking?” she gasps, eyes going wide.
“I can’t help it,” I whine, aggrieved at her accusatory tone. “You’re the one always parading about in the nude!”
She boggles for a few moments before groaning a denial. My mother throws another appalled look at my face and says, “Oh dear God no. Sean,” she gasps, fingers at her mouth.
Then she leaves me staring after her as she flees the room.
###
I bang into her pussy later that night. I’ve got her on her bed. My mother’s on her back, knees somewhere near her ears in a contortionist’s pose thanks to her yoga. Her pussy is tilted towards me while she stares up at my face, her eyes like full moons with the shock of it.
“I can’t believe I’m fucking my son,” she gurgles. My mother offers me a grin and crinkles her nose. “But it’s lovely,” she coos.
Of course the scene is all in my head. I’m alone in my bedroom, tugging my dick while using the mindreel fantasy of my mother in her shoes.
I see her again as she was: bare breasts upthrust by the quarter cup bra, the length of her legs exaggerated because of the heels. Her thighs and calves are tense, and her pussy — oh, God, her vulva all plump and enticing and packed into her knickers.
I’m desperate to come and grunting with need, fucking my cock into my fist.
“Keep doing it,” the fantasy moans while urgently thrusting her hips. “God, don’t stop doing it, baby; you’ll make mummy come if you fuck her like that.”
The look on her face does it. My mother gazes up into my eyes, blowing me a kiss before beaming a huge smile, the expression melting to shock when she realises I’m coming.
“Kiss me,” she groans, head lolling back as her own climax claims her and the spasms take hold.
My mother groans and judders, breath coming out as a sob. She lifts up her head and pulls me in for a kiss. Our lips touch and our tongues slide together, my cock buried deep as I pour the love into her body.
My eyes close and I wallow in the depravity of squirting my seed deep into my mother. It goes on and on and on. I groan and writhe and keep yanking away ’til I’m dry. I open my eyes when I’m sated. I’m on top of my bed, covered in cum and gasping for breath, heart pounding away.
I’ve only just wiped the mess off my chest when I hear the knock at the door, my sphincter loosening with horror as I realise how close I’ve come to being caught spraying jizm all over myself.
“What is it?” I warble, appalled, reaching for my mobile. I check the time, surprised to see it’s the middle of the night at 2:33.
“Can I come in?” she asks through the wood. “I can’t sleep. I’ve got so much on my mind.” There’s a pause before she goes on with, “I need to sort this all out, Sean. I’ll be a wreck at work on Monday if we don’t put all this to bed.”
I’m vaguely aware of her poor choice of phrase, but can’t ignore the plaintive plea in her tone.
“Please, Sean,” she says, knocking again, her rapping persistent and woodpecker fast. I know from experience she won’t let it lie. If my mother has her mind set on an objective, she usually achieves it.
Just ask my dad.
Agitated, I glance round my room. It seems free of any DNA evidence but my stomach still flutters when I look at the door. After the awful encounter downstairs I’m embarrassed to face her.
“All right,” I shout back when she carries on tapping. “Come in if you have to.”
The relentless rap-rap-rap ceases abruptly. There’s a pause and I imagine my mother hesitating and chewing her lip. When the moment stretches to a few seconds I begin to think she’s lost her nerve, but the door opens a moment later and she enters enveloped in a large fluffy robe.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed to see she’s not naked.
“Sean?” she blinks, tiny and vulnerable inside the dressing gown.
I’m in bed, with the sheet up to my chest. I don’t say anything, and neither does she.
We just look at one another for a while until she sighs and says, “Oh God, Sean.” My mother shrugs and shakes her head, adding “I…” but getting no further.
There’s another difficult pause before my mother looks at the bed and asks, “May I?”
I nod in assent, knowing she wants to sit, which she does when I shift sideways a bit.
The bed dips as she settles. I’m acutely aware of her presence, the awkwardness swelling between us.
It goes on. The proverbial elephant in the room with us grows bigger and bigger with each passing second.
“I didn’t know,” my mother eventually says.
To which I reply, “Didn’t know what?”
She shifts her rump and clears her throat, eyes going everywhere but me. “Well,” she begins. “You know … About seeing me nude. I didn’t know you were bothered.
There’s more silence until she breaks it again.
“When?” she asks.
“What?” I say, pretending I don’t have a clue.
“Did it start.”
“Did what start?”
She sighs and the bed moves when she squirms. “This … this fancying me — or whatever it is.” My mother glances at me and waves a hand in the air, then looks away.
My insides curl with embarrassment. I’m mortified, my face heating up. I don’t want to answer at all. What I want is for her to go away and leave me to feed on chagrin for a few months, but, in the end, knowing she won’t let it lie, I blurt out, “Last Christmas,” my cheeks burning hotter.
There are bound to be more questions coming my way and, sure enough, one arrives almost immediately.
“What happened to bring it on?”
I groan with the agony and whisper, “I noticed you were a woman instead of just my mum.” I’m not looking directly at her but still see her wince from the corner of my eye.
I can also see her shaking her head. “Oh Jesus,” she mutters.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
“If I can ask…?”
She pauses and I look at her face, but my mother isn’t looking at me. Her eyes are angled down at the floor, her profile troubled. I see her internal struggle, lips moving as she mutters something I can’t make out.
Then, after gathering her resolve, she turns her head and her eyes confront mine.
“If I can ask,” she repeats. “Just what was it exactly?”
It’s an excruciating sixty seconds or so, but I explain about the tanlines, stuttering and hesitating as I endure the telling.
I finish and she starts to ask, “And do you…?” There’s another pause before my mother finishes with, “Well, you know…”
The hand gesture confirms what I’m thinking. The closed fist and jerking action leave me in no doubt.
I’m humiliated she’s asked and don’t want to admit to fantasising over my mother, especially not to her face.
“Do what?” I ask, incredulous. I’m stalling while struggling to come up with a way out of this hideous confrontation. I’d get up and leave, but I’m nude under the sheet.
“Touch yourself, Sean. That’s what I mean.”
I can hear her exasperation, but we’re in territory I’m not prepared to venture into so I gasp, “Mum, please … Jesus!” My eyes flick back to her face and then quickly move on to a point on the wall over her shoulder.
Meanwhile, her gaze is relentless.
She surprises me by laughing and saying, “It’s perfectly normal. Everyone does it. Even I I do it too,” my mother informs me.
I groan and close my eyes and turn away to roll onto my side. It’s more than I can take.
But Mum isn’t having any of I, she’s determined, voice stern when she pokes me in the back with her elbow. “Oi, no, Sean, no curling up to hide, she tells me. “This is part of the problem. We don’t talk about things enough. We’re embarrassed by sex. You never used to be bothered by seeing me nude. It’s just sex makes it awkward.”
“You’re my mother,” I say. “There are some things we shouldn’t talk about.”
I sense her shrug as she says, “Why not? It’s just us. There’s nobody else to get in the way. Maybe we should talk about it all freely. Who knows,” adds my mother, “it might make you feel better.”
I lie there and hope she’ll just go away.
She won’t, of course, but I still hope.
She plays me with silence. My mother lets me lie there, her weight on the bed a signal she’s prepared to wait as long as it takes.
Damn, she’s so stubborn!
The pressure inside me cranks up as I try to prove I’m as capable of holding out as she is.
But, in the end, with great reluctance and a heavy sigh I have to concede. I decide to save myself the torment. Better a quick bullet than suffer the torture.
“All right,” I breathe, rolling over. “Let’s talk about it. Let’s get it over with and then you get out of my room and leave me alone.”
My mother chuckles and pulls a face. “Please, Sean,” she says while smirking at me. “Let’s have less of the drama.”
A hot flare of anger wells when I see the roll of her eyes. In that moment I just want to hurt her, and to get in a dig of my own I ask, “So what happened tonight? What did he do?”
My mother’s face crumples. The grin vanishes and she seems to shrink inside the gown, the words leaving a shitty taste in my mouth when I see their effect.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, immediately contrite.
“Oh, Sean,” she sighs, “it isn’t your fault. He confessed to sleeping with someone else. He thought by telling me it all, we could move on.”
All I reply with is, “Oh.”
I know she wouldn’t have accepted anything he said after confessing. One chance. You cheat, you’re gone. No exceptions.
Just ask my dad.
“Sex,” she says, spitting out the word. “All he had to do was explain before doing anything sneaky. He might have gotten a surprise.”
My mother pauses, eyes glazing.
She drifts for a while, eyes glazing.
I feel bad when I see her wistful expression. It’s my fault for reminding her and wished I’d kept my mouth shut.
“If he was up front and honest,” she starts up again. “And God knows, I thought I’d explained all that to him.” My mother looks looks at me in earnest. “I told him how I felt about infidelity,” she says, stressing her feelings by clenching both fists. “Itoldhim to be truthful with me. No matter what was going on inside his head, I said he should share it.
“If he was up front and honest,” she continues, eyes wide as she says, “he could have had his fun. The sex I don’t care about, Sean. It’s the fucking deceit I can’t stand.”
My jaw dangles at the revelation. It comes a bit of a shock to discover my mother would let her swain slip the collar for a bout of no-strings rumpy-pumpy as long as he was honest about it. I blink and gawp at her, the idea slowly filtering through layers of disbelief.
She must see something in my expression to indicate some need for further clarification because my mother rattles on without a word from me. “It’s quite simple, Sean. The sex doesn’t matter. I can understand how overwhelming passion can be. I’ve been there myself.”
An image bursts into mind when she says that. I didn’t want to think it, but I immediately picture my mother caught in the throes. I’ve seen it before, inside my head: she’s on all fours and looking back at her lover. She’s got that look on her face. She’s daring him to fuck into her, hard. Her buttocks are raised, breasts all heavy and round and exquisitely presented to his palms as he leans low over her back. I watch them kiss, with my mother eagerly sucking his tongue as she winces and groans, her body taking his length from behind.
Of course, the lover is me.
She’s still talking as I try to supress the lewd image. I’m fully aware the sheet won’t mask my resurgent erection, but what I’ve imagined is so vivid and powerful I’ll be back up and ready in seconds.
“It’s the betrayal that eats me up,” my mother is saying as I ease up the bed and raise my knees to disguise my dilemma. “And this thing with you,” she goes on. “It doesn’t mean anything, Sean. It’s inside your head. Nobody will get hurt. So what,” she shrugs, “you suddenly noticed me as female? It isn’t like you’ve tried to molest me, is it? You know the difference between what’s right and what isn’t.”
I wonder if she’d be so blasé if she could see the despicable scenarios I’ve conjured up between us. How cool would she be if she knew I’d just thought about fucking her pussy with my hands all over her tits?
“But you’re my mum,” I groan, trying to do the right thing. “I shouldn’t think about you in that way.”
“I do believe,” my mother says with a smile. “It’s more common than you might imagine.” She lays a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she adds. “It really doesn’t bother me at all. I could be quite flattered actually.”
And I know it’s a joke. Her last line was a throw-away comment she used to lighten the mood. And she isn’t to know, but her touch has electrified me. I’m fully erect and churning inside. If it wasn’t for the robe, I’d be on her. It takes an immense effort of will not to lunge. If she’d been nude there would have been no stopping me. Her naked body would have been too much to resist.
“I still shouldn’t think it,” I manage to say.
She chuckles and pulls her hand back.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Sean. It doesn’t matter. Honestly, babe, you don’t have to feel embarrassed. I’d rather we talked and got everything out in the open than bottle things up. Besides,” she says, head tilting towards one shoulder. “Like I said, it’s just us. There’s nobody else to consider. What business is it of anyone else’s what we say behind these four walls? It’s like me being nude. I love the freedom. And inside my own home, who am I bothering?
Except you, of course,” she finishes with a grin.
There’s an upsurge of emotion inside me. “You’re incredible,” I mumble, which is the second I resolve to fight off the pervasive thoughts and imaginings. I’m suddenly filled with determination. I love my mother; I’m proud of her. She’s strong and courageous — and who am I to dictate how she behaves?
My mother looks at me. She’s puzzled when I say, “You shouldn’t listen to me.”
She blinks and frowns, then says, “What do you mean?”
I shrug while gurgling, “About it being inappropriate. You’ve always done it. I’m the one who’s changed. Besides, I don’t live here full-time. This is your home. If you want to walk around nude…”
She pulls back to eye me with doubt. “But what about … you know…” My mother gestures with her head. She nods towards my genitalia, inconspicuous but rampant under the sheet. “…your problem,” she finishes.
“It’s my problem,” I say, meaning it at the time. “I’ll be fine,” I assure her. “I promise.”
My mother nods slowly. She stares off into nothing again, perfectly still for a few beats before rousing herself. “Thank you,” she smiles. “I’m so glad we can talk.”
“Me too,” I reply, a little surprised when I realise my mother had been right. “I feel … lighter,” I tell her.
“I’m glad,” she says, leaning in.
I’m stunned when her lips brush my cheek. The heat comes off her, my mother’s scent lingering when she stands and nods down at me.
“See,” she says with a smile, “it was worth me coming in and forcing a talk, wasn’t it?”
It was and it wasn’t. When she leaves me lying there I’m already wondering why I let on it was all right for her to carry on in the nude. My newfound resolve has evaporated already.
My mother pauses near the door and turns to waggle her fingers at me, cheeks dimpled with an ebullient smile.
“Night,” she says.
The door clicks shut and I recall what she said: I do it too, you know. It had never occurred to me my mother might be a few yards away, in her own bed, fingers sloshing around her vulva as she masturbated herself to a climax.
The heat envelops me. Lust bursts afresh and I throw back the sheet and work at my dick, my head full of my mother with a thick dildo wedged in her cunt.
###
When I walk into the kitchen she looks at me and asks, “Is this okay?”
I nod and say, “Yes,” although the word sounds more croaky than I would have liked.
She notices the catch in my voice and her eyes narrow. “You sure?”
It doesn’t help when her breasts sway as she stands, but I nod again.
“I can put some clothes on,” she says, and I can tell she’s doubtful about my sincerity.
I hold up a palm to stop her from going. Then close my eyes and say, “No. Really. I meant what I said. I can deal with it, Mum.”
She’s dubious. It’s all over her face. My mother hesitates and continues to observe for a few seconds longer. But, eventually, she sits back down at the table.
“How did you sleep?” she asks as I go to the counter.
The truth is I didn’t sleep much; my head was filled with my mother.
“So-so,” I tell her, taking bread from the bin. It isn’t an outright lie, just hedging it a bit. After what she told me last night, I don’t want to deceive her.
The toaster does its thing and I pour tea from the pot. The milk goes in and I carry the lot to the table, then pull out a chair at the opposite end from my mother.
Spreading butter onto the toast I causally ask, “What about you?”
She regards me from over the rim of a Kath Kidston mug. “How did I sleep?”
I nod and force my eyes to remain on her face while kidding myself it will get easier with time. This fixation for my mother couldn’t last forever, I hoped.
“So-so,” she grins before adding, “But I l stayed awake thinking for quite a long time.”
I think she might be dwelling on her break-up and say, “You’re better off without him.”
But it seems I’m mistaken when my mother chuckles and says, “I’m not bothered by that. You’re right, I am better off. No, Sean,” she adds. “I was thinking about you.”
Disquiet slides in my guts. “Me?” I murmur.
“You,” she nods. “And you’re doing it already.”
I have no clue what she means. “Doing what?” I reply.
“Not looking at me.”
I say, “I am,” and make a point of looking her right in the face.
My mother clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes. “Yes, when I’m sat down. But when I stood up before you avoided looking completely. It’s okay,” she goes on in a soft, soothing tone. “Look if you want to. Just be open and honest.”
The toast sits on the plate as I pick up the mug and slurp at the tea, my mind turning over what she just told me.
“Open and honest?” I breathe, more to myself than my mother. If only I could be open and honest.
Her bottom lip juts out as she nods.
“Okay,” I say, and then glance at her breasts.
My mother’s eyebrows flick high on her forehead. “What are you thinking?” she breathes.
My throat swells with the answer I don’t dare to give her. If I tell her I’m thinking I’d love to suck on her tits it would be too open and too honest.
“Is it dirty?” she asks in a tone which sends a ripple of need through my core.
My jaw aches and I realise I’m clenching my teeth. “Not exactly,” I lie.
She pouts at me and chuckles. “Then what?”
“I was just thinking…”
When I shut up and shake my head she’s insistent. “You can’t leave it like that,” my mother insists.
“Mum, please,” I moan. “I … I can’t say.”
“Sean,” she cajoles. “You can tell me anything, babe. “I won’t be angry, I promise.”
I want to unburden. I want to tell her but I’m too afraid she’ll be disgusted if I reveal what’s on my mind.
“You will,” I say, avoiding her eyes.
Her eyes roll again as she says, “What is it with men?”
She whispers my name and I face her.
My mother fixes her attention fast on my face and, like she’s talking to a particularly slow learner she says, “What part of open and honest is so difficult for you to understand, Sean?”
My face warms. I fidget in my seat. “But–” I begin.
She’s on her feet, palms flat on the table. My mother leans forward and grinds out, “I thought we sorted this last night? It’s just us here, Sean. It’s our opinions which matter. Don’t worry about what anyone else might think. You can tell me. It’s better if I know.”
I seriously doubt it, but her body goads me into being braver than I might normally be. What she said goes a little way there, but it’s her breasts and the cinch of her waist which motivates me the most.
“It’s luh-like you are now,” I manage to stutter. “When I see your … your boobs. Your body … Mum … it’s making me mental. I keep seeing you nude and can’t help but think all this … this stuff.”
“So look at it,” she gasps, rising upright. The backs of her knees hit the chair and send it skriking across the tiles as she pushes it away. “Look at me all you need to, Sean. Don’t lock your feelings inside.”
I gawp at her, stunned, the amazement showing in my voice when I ask, “You really don’t mind?”
“I want to go nude in my house, and you said I could. If you want to look at me … then look. If you have to … take yourself off and sort yourself out, then do it, Sean. But I don’t mind you looking,” she breathes.”
“God, Mum; you’re beautiful,” I gasp.
###
I’m in my room cranking my dick when she comes in.
It’s a first. In the past my mother has always, always knocked.
“I thought so,” she says as I gape in surprise, my cock stuck in my fist.
Then it hits me. I realise just what it is that’s happened and I’m scrabbling for cover while my mother moves further into my room.
“You don’t have to stop,” she informs me. “I … I just want to watch.”
The stutter is the first indication I’ve heard she’s affected in any way. Not that I’m taking too much notice because I’m too busy yanking at the bedsheet jammed underneath my arse. What’s concentrating my mind is the most urgent need to get my hard-on out of sight.
“It’s all right, Sean,” she assures me, moving even closer.
But to my mind it most definitely isn’t. It’s very far from ‘all right’. I’m not too impressed by my mother walking in on me mid-wank, even if she is the principal focus of the masturbatory frenzy I was so heavily involved in.
What comes out of my mouth is the entirely predictable, “Get out!” I wave her away while gasping, “What the hell are you doing?”
“I just want to watch,” she repeats. “Please.” My mother stands at the side of the bed, squirming as she reaches down to yank at the sheet.
There’s a tussle. She yanks at the sheet, I pull it back.
“Mum … Shit … What are you doing?” I squeak.
“I thought you’d be wanking,” she tells me, giving up the fight. My mother steps backwards a pace. “I just wondered…” She pouts and shrugs and slides her palms over her body from brisket to hips. “I don’t know, really,” she says, shrugging again. “But I just thought you might like to look at me while you’re doing it. You’re thinking about me anyway, aren’t you?”
The way her hands moved over her body stirs me. I see her looking, her expression unreadable. Then I look at her near flawless body and think, why not?
Why the hell shouldn’t I do it?
Just as I think it, my mother goes on to say, “Isn’t it what you’ve been imagining, Sean?
“Me? Nude? With you?”
I’m fired up with desire for my mother. God, but she’s hot.
I croak, “Yes,” and her head cants to the side.
My mother gnaws on her lower lip, eyes wide. “Well?” she says.
I hesitate, wanting to do it, but she’s my mother and that puts on the brakes.
Although, when she moves in to reach for the sheet, I don’t stop her from pulling it away.
She breathes out a sigh when she sees me. “There you are,” says my mother. “What a lovely big boy.”
It feels like I’m swallowing a brick when I gulp and look at her face. She’s avid, gazing at me with an intensity which sends a surge through my core. What’s going on is so wrong. There’s danger in behaving this way.
But, with her staring at me, I pick up my length and curl my fingers around the girth of my hard-on.
My mother’s hair sways when she gently shakes her head. In a whisper she says, “God, that looks good.”
Our stares meet and engage. I’m looking at her while she watches me, the thrill of it making me groan.
“Do it, Sean,” murmurs my mother. “Pull it. Show me. Wank that big thing.”
There’s a crack in her voice when she delivers the last, and I realise she’s turned on.
“I don’t believe this,” I groan while she stands there and gazes at me fisting my cock.
“Well, it’s true. Believe it,” she tells me, turning to show off her rear. “Tanlines, was it?” she asks, knowing the story. “I’ll have to dig that bikini out,” my mother continues, waist creasing as she twists round to look back at me. “I could do with some sun. I might go nude in the garden.” She chuckles and turns round to face me.
My eyes are level with my mother’s smooth vulva as she stands with her fists on her hips. She’s so close I could lean in and kiss the flat plane of the tummy.
I wonder f she’d let me? I wonder if that’s what she wants.
My mother says, “I wonder what Jonathon next door will do when he sees me parading around with my boobs out?” Her chin juts towards where my hand is busy tugging away. “Probably the same as you, eh, Sean?”
I’m getting into it by now. The weirdness has gone for the time being. I’m close to insane with my need. I can deal with the aftermath later because, in the moment, right now, all that matters is chugging my dick. I’m burning with lust and egging myself on towards slipping a hand between my mother’s thighs. I’m close to doing it, another second or two and she’d be hot against my palm. I’m yanking and grunting when she sits on the edge of the bed. And, thwarted in my plan to rub my mother’s pussy, all I can do is shunt sideways a few inches, my fist jerking my length.
I moan, “Oh God,” and use both my hands on my cock.
My mother sees it and gasps. “This is so bloody dirty,” she whines. “It’s so naughty.” Grinning wickedly, she looks at me and breathes, “I know I shouldn’t watch you like this … I know it’s the wrong thing to do … And I don’t know what came over me, Sean…
“But it’s really quite thrilling seeing you do it.”
Pre-cum pours out of me. My bell-end is slippery with gloop, my shaft sucking and squelching while I fuck both my hands. I’m grunting in time with each thrust, jaws clenched, teeth bared. If she wants it dirty…
“God, look at you,” she squeaks, eyes huge, jaw dangling. “Dear God, Sean…”
“Can I touch you?” I gasp, already reaching. Which is the wrong thing to do.
My mother moves fast. Like my hand was on fire, she rolls away. She’s up and off the bed before my fingers get near.
I groan in frustration as my mother stands there and chides me. “No, Sean, you shouldn’t,” she says.
It seems an odd place to draw the line to me. I can think dirty thoughts while she’s naked? I can wank my cock while she watches? It’s acceptable for her to sit there and watch — but I can’t touch her boobs?
“Please,” I grimace. “Just let me touch you…”
And when I go to get up, I’m suddenly alone.
###
My ardour deflates. When it does I’m immediately struck by arrows of guilt and remorse.
I can’t leave it like this. I have to make amends and pull on some loose tracky bottoms, then go in search.
It doesn’t take long. My mother is just along the corridor, in her bedroom, the door ajar.
I stand at the threshold and look in. I’m torn — do I enter or not? What am I going to say? What’s she going to say?
She’s on the bed, sitting elegantly with her legs crossed, arms straight down at her sides, palms against the quilt. It’s light in there courtesy of the big window, the white quilt cover as pristine a new fall of snow. She’s in there because she finds the room peaceful. It’s her sanctuary, her yoga den with pale blue walls and blonde wood furniture. She’s staring at the Thai figurine on top of the dresser, its features serene. Which is nothing like the way I feel.
Her positioning, my mother’s straight spine, means her chest is thrust forward, breasts sitting high.
Without her realising, I stare, cock twitching again.
“Mum?” I murmur, leaning in, torso angled while my feet stay fixed in neutral territory.
Even at her age, in that light, I think she’s beautiful.
“Sean,” she says, flat, dull, listless. Her inscrutable expression and neutral tone don’t give me a clue about her mood or thoughts or what it is she’s feeling.
“I’m sorry,” I say when nothing else comes to mind. Then I go back to staring at her while thinking how much I want to touch her skin.
“No,” she replies with a little shake of her head. “I’m sorry, Sean. I really don’t know what I was thinking. I can’t believe I did that.” Her eyes slide away to the Buddha, her voice tapering off to a sigh.
I go to step forward, lifting my foot before hesitating. I lower it again and seek her permission. “Mum? I say. “Cuh-can I … Can I come in?”
“I suppose you’d better,” she says with a shrug. “We’d better talk this one over. God,” she adds with a gasp and a wince. “What an idiot. I’m so sorry, Sean. Bursting in on you like I did … I’m appalled at myself. Mortified.”
Moving forward I tell her, “It was a shock when you did.”
When I get to her a dark chasm yaws open inside me. Yearning is a dull ache somewhere in the indefinable deep. I can feel the heavy mass of my cock inside the tracksuit bottoms still sluicing pre-cum. The need for sexual release keeps it thick, and it won’t take much to have it puffed up and angry.
Without realising I’m doing it, I slip the waist of the tracksuit down over my hips.
“Sean,” she says, gulping. “What are you doing?” Her voice has cranked up an octave or two, eyes going wide.
It seems she’s about to protest, but then my erection springs into view. My mother sees the long jib arcing in front of her.
She gasps and groans a throaty, “Oh God…”
It’s a sound to make my cock tingle.
I’m working on instinct. So far my mother hasn’t given a clue, but I feel the best thing I can do is start jacking my dick. Right there in front of her, up close and personal.
Her mouth hangs open. My mother just gapes, staring straight at my length as I work at it, groaning because it feels so fucking good.
“You wanted to watch,” I mumble, the words clotted with lust. “And I want you to watch.”
“I did,” she breathes in reply. “But, Sean, I shouldn’t have done it … You shouldn’t be doing that…”
I’m in no mood for any objections. It’s gone too far. I’m getting wild with the glorious sensations and there’s no power can stop me.
“But I want to,” I moan. “I have to. I’m going mental.”
Her throat works as she gulps, face tilting, big eyes intent on my face. “Were you thinking about me?” she gurgles. “Before, when I went to your room?” She angles her head in the direction of my bedroom. “You know, when I walked in and caught you … Were you thinking of me, Sean?”
It’s my turn to swallow. “Of course I was, Mum,” I admit on a whine. “Who else?”
She’s staring at my cock as she breathes, “What do you think about? What do I do?”
I’m slowly caressing it, showing it off. I flaunt my size at my mother and whisper, “Oh God, Mum … Everything. You do it all.”
Trancelike, my mother nod slowly. She blinks a few times and then chews her bottom lip.
“This is dangerous,” she says, then goes on to add, “but I think I’m going to have to play with myself too.”
I’m processing this information when my mother looks up and asks, with all seriousness, “Would you mind if I did?”
She must take the groan as assent. I make the noise and my mother uncrosses her legs, thighs going wide. I moan again while watching her hand slip down, fingers splaying the folds of her labia.
“Just this once won’t hurt, will it?” she asks, wincing and sobbing as she fingers her clit. “I can watch you while you watch me. It won’t do any harm, will it? It’s just us, isn’t it, Sean? What we do isn’t anybody else’s business.”
I’m pulling myself hard while I stare at my mother and she rubs her sex. It isn’t going to take long. I can feel myself fizzing already.
My orgasm bubbles in my stalk and I know I’m going to blow as my mother works herself into a lather as well. She alternates between quick rubs at her clit and using two fingers against her opening. My mother fucks at her cunt, the middle- and ring-fingers side-by-side as her pussy squelches around them.
She goes at it hard, squeaking and mewling with pleasure, her face all twisted with agonised delight, big breasts shivering and rolling while she whines and grunts and grins up into my face.
Then it starts, her expression shifting to shock when the first splash of the hot stuff flicks onto her skin.
Cum bursts forth as I carry on cranking. It feels so wonderful I don’t care where it goes as I sob and grunt and unload all over my mother’s generous frontage.
I’m vaguely aware that she yelps, and the next thing I’m conscious of is the pliant flesh of my mother’s tits under my palms and fingers as I smear jizm over her skin, my tongue pushed into her mouth.
And what amazes me the most is she’s accepting the kiss.
My mother moans into my open mouth and grabs for my hand, eager to get my spunky fingers down between her legs.
###
She lays back and offers herself to me. I’m knelt on the bed with two fingers inside her, curled over like a question mark so I can kiss her mouth and maul one of her breasts with my free hand.
“We shouldn’t do this?” she gasps during a lull.
“I know,” I reply, but get right back to kissing.
My mother strokes me when her hand finds me still hard.
She croaks out, “We can’t fuck. I’m not on the pill.”
But I’m mindless to the risk, insane with my need. It’s the same as before — I’ll worry about the aftermath later.
“We shouldn’t,” she says as I climb over to settle between her legs.
My mother’s objection is feeble at best as she shifts her rump to make it easier for me to present my cock-head to her body.
“Oh no,” she squeaks, chin on chest while staring at the big dome nudging her vulva. “You’re going to do it…”
She turns her appalled visage towards me, gulping while going up to rest on her elbows, legs folded at the knees, thighs spreading in a parody of one of her yoga poses.
“Sean,” she whines while splaying her labia with two fingers, nose crinkled, jaw hanging, hot eyes fixed on my face. “You’re really going to fuck me.” Then I’m inside her.
My mother clenches around my girth, her hips already moving.
“Oh!” she yips, fingers spread out like a starfish across my chest. “No … You need a condom … I’m so vulnerable … I’m naked down there…”
“You’re lovely,” I groan in response. “I take it out. I can’t help it. You’re so hot, s fucking sexy,” I moan.
We rut. It’s bestial. I fuck into my mother while she thrusts up to meet me on the robust downstroke. We’re both grunting and snorting when I lean in, pelvis working fast as I drill my mother’s pussy and we kiss.
“Oh my God,” she squeaks, knees by her ears, her cunt taking all of me down to my balls. “My son … Oh God … Oh, Sean!”
“I’ve wanted to do this,” I sob. “I’ve thought about you, Mum. I’ve imagined being with you like this…”
And then I grunt as I pour all I have left into my mother.
