Where I catch my son spying on our naughty neighbors

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Slumped against the window, juice dripping down my leg, orgasm reverberating through my body, I knew I needed to get out of there, but my legs were shaky, my mind frazzled. Like Todd, I was guilty of spying on our neighbors, but fuck, who wouldn’t want to watch that intense carnal display.

And then my son, wearing boxers, his dick half-hard, stepped into the bathroom.

“Ohmigod Mom, I didn’t know, sorry, door, unlocked.”

Then he saw my hand in my pants, glanced at the window, realized I hadn’t been going to the bathroom, but had been doing exactly what he’d been doing, masturbating while spying on the neighbors. His dick started to harden.

Taking a second to gather my thoughts, I said, “It’s okay son, we need to talk, but first,” I pointed to his now fully erect penis, “you best take care of that.”

* * * * *

I ran a washcloth over my pubes — that felt good — cleaned my hands and face, combed my hair, touched-up my make-up, went downstairs, told my husband, throughly engrossed in Raw, that Todd and I were going to the coffee shop to review his homework.

“That’s fine dear.”

I still don’t know whether he heard me.

* * * * *

“How long have you known?”

“Three weeks ago, the night of Wrestlemania. You left your cell phone downstairs. I brought it up to you, mostly to avoid the wrestling. I knocked, you didn’t answer, your light was out. I figured you were asleep so I cracked your door open to leave it on your desk. Instead I saw you watching them, your ear buds were in.”

“I remember, I thought something odd was going on that night. That story about leaving the phone in the bathroom didn’t make sense.”

I smiled. “Odder than your friend and his mother getting it on?”

I didn’t mean for it to come out that vulgar, but I liked the sound of it. The memory of Milla and William replaying in my mind, I felt vulgar.

My son paused, then said, “You mean odder than your friend and her son getting it on? I used to think so, now I’m not so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“I first saw them about three months ago, it freaked me out, but I couldn’t stop watching, and the more I watched, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed okay. They’re not hurting anyone and all William used to do is bitch about his mother. Now they get along great, it’s like they’re best friends.”

“Friends with benefits,” I smirked.

“Something like that. You’re not going to tell anyone?”

“What do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t want Ms. Jovanovic or William to get in trouble.”

Having no idea whom I would tell, I said, “No, I won’t, they’re adults, this is between them. I should tell on you for watching, there are laws about that y’know. You’ve been a bad boy.”

“Yeah, but then you’d have to tell on yourself.”

“Yeah, there’s that.”

He snaked his hand into mine and said, “Next time try watching from my room. The view is much better. What do you think of them?”

Deciding not to confirm his observation that their happy sexual relationship was just part of a happy personal relationship, or that watching them, or thinking about watching them, turned me on, I said, “It’s a shock. You don’t think about mothers and sons like that, but you’re right, they’re not harming anyone.”

“Yeah, they’re usually in her room or at least I think so, it faces the street so I can’t see. But they still do it in his room sometimes.”

“People sometimes vary where they have sex, change locations, it spices things up.”

Would that work on my husband?

“Oh. How would you feel if I keep ….” He stopped, wondering how far he could push.

I didn’t make him guess. Emboldened by the forbidden behavior I’d just witnessed, feeling explicit, I said, “…watching them fuck?”

Todd raised an eyebrow, slid his finger on mine, and in a conspiratorial tone said, “Exactly,” then, pronouncing each word deliberately and distinctly, said, “How-would-you-feel-if-I-keep-watching-them-fuck?”

I was enjoying the game. “As a responsible mother I absolutely forbid you from engaging in such inappropriate, dissolute, and, I note, illegal behavior.” Then turning his hand over and twirling my finger-tip on his palm, I said, “As a realistic mother, I have to acknowledge you’re eighteen years old, capable of making your own choices, and there is nothing I can do, short of switching bedrooms with you, reporting you to the police, or suggesting Milla close her blinds, to stop you. We both know I’m not moving into your bedroom, turning you into the police, or embarrassing my friend by letting her know her secret is out.”

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