A Question of Sex

[This fanciful story is of two consenting people well-over twenty-one, and revolves around what they both believe the other is thinking. It is purely a work of fiction and no animals were harmed in the process.]

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about sex. Ah I know, that doesn’t make me any different than 99.9% of the population. So to be more precise, I’ve been pondering all of its thorny implications. How that, sometimes it’s not even a good idea to discuss some of the sexual feelings that you have regarding another person, and that translating those erotic thoughts into actions can have you ostracized, pilloried, or shot! Still, the human sex drive can be maddeningly insistent. Only societal convention and an acute allergy towards buckshot keep most of us from humping in the streets.

But the aching desire for whom or what we’re attracted to can occasionally present a problem for either or both parties involved in a sexual dalliance. Some sexual situations are merely frowned upon while others are declared illegal or repugnant. Though I am hardly one to judge the morality of others, I won’t begin to absolve those who lust after other unwilling adults, any children, or certain beleaguered farm animals. But the cock wants what the cock wants. I once heard it said, that you could turn to any page in the Sears Catalogue and point to an object, and somebody somewhere wants to fuck it!

The ability to distract or tame our primal urges is often beyond our meager control. Often a whithering glance is enough to adjust a wayward attitude. Sometimes it takes a wicked slap to the face. Recognizing just how far we can push this indelicate subject can be traced to a true survival instinct. This brings me to the quaint notion of “consenting adults.” It’s difficult enough to find two people whose temperaments and inhibitions mesh in a way; that beyond the need to procreate, they form a union of like minds and reciprocal desires, that endure for a relative period of time and produce the sexual and emotional gratification needed to keep the relationship vital.

Even then though, many of these unions are not always welcomed in “so-called” civilized society. Same-sex, mixed-race, May-September romance and incest come instantly to mind. This leads me to the revelation that I have never spoken of out loud. And that is, that I am fucking my own mother. Let that sink in for a second, because I know that it always takes a moment for me to fully realize the taboo nature of our little predicament. The mythical tale of Oedipus has a truly morose ending, but the illicit thrill of seducing and possessing your mother for bouts of sexual satisfaction and/or degradation is a haunting urge. This is not a Hallmark story of unrequited love, it’s a morally obscene wet dream of fulfilling a dark, deviant desire.

My name is Michael, everybody calls me Mickey. I am now twenty-six, and this began about two yeaars ago. I am tall and lanky, nothing in particular distinguishes my appearance. Dark hair, dark eyes, clean-shaven with the makings of a beer belly, and a dragon tattoo on my left shoulder. My features apparently came from my father’s side. But enough about me.

My mother’s name is Helen. She is now in her late forties and her lithe body has succumbed to the effects of nearly five decades of fighting gravity. She was never a model and would not ever be mistaken for my “older sister.” But I have seen pictures of when she first captivated my dad, and to be blunt, any red-blooded male seeing those prints of her prancing half-dressed in her native Nordic land, would be hard-pressed to not spend the next few moments stretching and tugging his manhood. She was a striking young woman with girl-next-door sex appeal. Her rich auburn-blonde hair, which I beg her not to ever cut, falls in creamy sheets to the middle of her lean back. She has blue eyes as deep as the fjords, that sparkle when she smiles and crinkles at the edges with small lines that enrage her but for me, only enhance her sexy image. And the blue orbs shine like the ice fields of the old country when she is rapt in orgasmic bliss. A secret obsession of mine is that while virginal maidens have an untouched quality that older women can never get back, the more mature vixens have an experienced edge of sophistication and knowledge that younger girls are just not born with.

My mother has aged gently. The youthful flower is no longer on the rose, but she has grown to accept her weaknesses and to emphasize her remarkably sensual traits. Her strong, angular jaw with the sharp cheekbones have become sprinkled with freckles from years in the warm sun, especially across the bridge of her aristocratic nose. She says they look silly on a grown woman, I tell her that they bring out the playful side of her exotic aspect. Her features are pale but she has learned to apply make-up to match her mood, and since our discreet tryst blossomed, I have seen her as kittenish or vampy, and she can now easily seduce me with her wily charms. She fought her incestuous feelings as they crept in upon her, figuring that anyone is entitled to a fantasy life, as long as these deviant urges are not acted on. But when she realized the overwhelming cravings were taking hold of her and bringing on taboo lusts that threatened the very boundaries of her upbringing, she was compelled to rationalize how her pleasures were more substantial than her morality.

Helen stands about 5’7″ and has a passion for erotic footwear, that seems to be incongruent with her public demeanor. Though in the past year the standard height of her heels has gradually risen to four inches, this was a woman who was raised in hiking boots and now her closet is filled with stilettos, thigh-highs, and gladiator styles. She spends as much money on pedicures and polish as I do on hops and barley. And she wears slender jeans or seductively-slit skirts to show off her toned legs. It was possibly the sight of those long legs with the well-defined calf muscles and sturdy thighs, that first drew my attention from the woman who was my mother, to the tempting MILF that I started fantasizing about. It was subtle at first, and not originally meant for me, but now that she knows of my obvious interest, her wardrobe took a more alluring direction. When she learned the tantalizing effect that they have on me, I have been treated to her strutting around in a variety of “come fuck me” heels and, often I have felt them draped around my neck and scraping torturous grooves down the small of my back.

City life has taken its toll on the young girl who lived for the outdoors by adding inches and age lines, but it has opened -up a world of licentious seduction that she admits, she never believed possible. Now she enjoys her role and actively pursues her pleasures. One of the perks of maturity is knowing what you want and what you can get away with. And a little harmless pleasure can be shared with someone who will keep your secrets. The great thrill of fantasy is the odd possibility that it may come true.

If it wasn’t her shapely gams that announced her attractiveness to me then it was undoubtedly those D-cups. The old pictures that I’ve recently unearthed don’t show the figure that mother sports today. She was lean and athletic with those long legs and fairly broad shoulders. But there is no hint of the bodacious cleavage that she emphasizes today. Maybe she kept them tantalizingly hidden from view, waiting for some lucky American guy to discover. Or it might have been late-onset puberty. Maybe she just got a little extra help from Mother Nature. I’m tempted to believe it must be the steroids used in American meats that produced the growth spurt that developed her considerable front porch. Mom has a major league rack. She says that they were kept more subdued as I was maturing myself. She worked as a clerk in a law firm and was the first person that people noticed when they walked through the doors. Her abundant bustline was viewed as both a hindrance and distraction in the office. She was often advised to tone it down and appear more demure when clients were around, but the lawyers ogled her figure just the same and propositioned her incessantly. They liked her and respected her marital sanctity. She remained buttoned-down and bottled-up for the duration. But when my father was caught literally with his pants down, her attorney friends wrangled a settlement that granted her the house and allowed her to begin to live a life of leisure. After a few years, she began to dress more for her comfort and later, for that of her twenty three-year old son. That’s when I began to see more flesh.

At home, her big boobs were allowed to bounce a bit more freely, though she would usually wear a bra for the extra support. She often mentions that men don’t realize the back and shoulder pain that accompanies a large bust. I obligingly, would have been willing to lend a hand in their support. A young man isn’t usually at liberty to display such gallantry to a mature woman in such a setting, mother/son relations make that so convenient. I was determined to grab and hold many of my mother’s more erotic features if she would ever permit me. And the mother often is freer at home to dress casually with little thought that the prying eyes of her predatory son may be leering at her body for his own deviant desires. Her long legs were a beautiful attribute that could be admired by all. But her incredible tits were a gift that to my mind, would be unveiled only for me. That was about the time that I set a course to seduce my mom. My moral compass may have been a bit off, but my cock was like a divining-rod and she was the oasis in the desert that I was searching for.

I’m sure that she wasn’t thinking of sexually teasing me, or of any other impure thoughts like the perverted fantasies that simmered in my wayward mind. In fact she probably just regarded the faintly ogling stares from me as nothing more than a son’s dutiful affection for his loving mother. But when I’d catch her trying to tan her alabaster skin in an over-stuffed bikini, or lounging around before bed in a thin tee shirt or sheer gown, I would catch an eyeful of those bountiful breasts swaying subtly and bewitchingly mere inches from my face. They were teardrop-shaped and heavy like water balloons, and just so inviting to the touch. There was more than one occurrence when I nearly had to sit on my own hand, to prevent it from reaching for those shapely mammaries. I knew even then that it was wrong, but I spent many restless nights with awkward dream scenarios of glimpsing her nude body, while yanking my severely engorged cock until I finally drifted off to sleep.

Those bodacious breasts are even fuller now and sag just a bit, and may even be a double-D, or whatever comes next. And the pink nipples jutting forth from the darker areola point more southerly than they once did, but it would take a strong-willed man (or a moron,) to not appreciate their generous proportions. In my early twenties, when my obsession intensified, those full rounded melons with deep cleavage and hypnotic bounce provided my “alone time” some very erotically taboo stimulation. Whenever she skipped down the stairs or hopped from a step stool, I would watch the figure-eight motion as her heaving breasts swayed like two cats in a sack. And any time that she leaned over; to vacuum, or to serve me supper, I felt that my neck followed the shadow of her cleavage all the way down the front of her blouse. I’m surprised that I never slobbered right down the front of her shirt. I scrupulously avoided making eye contact with her at these times, as the guilt of my incestuous thoughts was bubbling so frantically to the surface that I feared it was etched on my face.

I can’t pinpoint an exact day when my deeply crude desire for my mom’s body was no longer confined to lustful dreams and the prolonged tug and pull of my stiffened prick. I will clarify for the record, just incase St. Peter is keeping track, that I was in my twenties when these libidinous urges seriously began to take hold. But I do remember a time when my mom’s mood took a sullen, wilting turn. For weeks she was moping around the house and sitting by herself often appearing to be lost in thought. She would look sad and depressed at any time and would heave some very melancholy sighs that alarmed me. I would catch her unaware, and it was obvious that she’d been crying or would pass through some somber phases in her normal routine. I know that this sounds awful, but I still couldn’t resist sneaking illicit peeks at her curvaceous body or when she hugged me during her despondent periods, I had to fight the urge to run my hands around her cushiony ass cheeks. I certainly wished for her mental health to return to normal, and I wish I knew the answer. But my mental health was also in a state of turmoil by constantly being exposed to this erotic stimulation (just kidding,) I understood the taboo nature of the circumstance and yet I still wanted to fuck my mom!

One evening we were sitting together on the couch watching some old chick-flick romance that she liked. Since we were ready to call it a night I was wearing only gym shorts and a tee. Mom was in her nightgown, a thin cottony sheath that stretched snugly over her hips, revealing her pink panties as she sat with her legs tucked under her. The cool night air sent a slight tremor through her body and with a sideways glance, I could easily determine that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her pointy nipples threatened to pierce the thin layer of material straining to contain the perky tips. She saw me struggling to readjust the growing lump between my legs, but her real thoughts apparently were elsewhere. She smiled demurely at me but it was as if I were just another piece of furniture. Helen’s glassy eyes signaled that her attention was on something farther away, as she watched the movie. An image on the screen seemed to capture her attention and she innocently eased closer to me while lulled into a dreamy state. Her reddened, weepy blue eyes looked to me for some form of reassurance and closeness, but of course, my eyes were drawn to her chest. When I finally met her gaze, I noticed a knowing smile of the sort that I’d never seen before. I was bewildered, and the moment slipped by me.

I discerned another brief shiver so I rested an arm around her bare shoulder and soon she laid her head in my lap. Her one hand was slowly rubbing my thigh as she laid there causing tiny sparks of crude inspiration to fill my head. A funny thing happened, she kissed my thigh rather tenderly, and in the next second, laughed it off by saying that I make a comfy pillow. Then she coughed nervously and nothing more was said. I needed to remind myself that she often cuddled me during these moods, so I fought any untoward craving that my body would produce so that she didn’t clearly see the perverted, lecherous scoundrel that she was harboring.

And that’s how we proceeded to half-watch the remainder of the movie. As it played out, and the lonely widow in the movie discovered the unexpected “love of her life,” I noticed a few slight sniffles from mom and some warm spots on my shorts where her quiet tears were wicking into the fabric. And still I noticed that the warm circles she was drawing with her hand were continuing, and inching closer to my crotch. It had to all be in my head, so I wrenched my wicked thoughts away from me, and more closely regarded my mother. She emitted no signal other than that of a lonely and forlorn woman, safe in the midst of her only family, and possibly dwelling heavily on her future. Though I did detect a few stuttering, half-gasping breaths that often jolted her ribcage and shook her entire frame. I was too absorbed in my stupidity to notice someone else’s dilemma. She should have just kicked me! My only thought was that I wished she would either keep her hand still or move it further up my thigh.

When I asked if there was a problem she tried to hold a stoic, motherly resolve. But with only a little prodding, she revealed to me her long fear that she might never find anyone to share her feelings with. Her thoughts must have been concentrated on someone who could enrich her fantasy life, if not her actual one.

And in a truly stunning confession, she let slip that she was “still a vital woman with so much to give.” Her tears warmed my leg and I felt the flutter of her soft lips when she once more lightly kissed my thigh, then she stirred to rise.

For once, I had no ulterior motive but soothing the sorry condition of my mother’s battered psyche. If she was giving me the “bunt” sign, I futiley swung and missed. I attempted to calm her nerves and to reassure her that someone special who appreciates her fully, could be right around the corner. I absent-mindedly stroked her tear-streaked cheeks and brushed my fingers through her loose golden locks. She seemed to coo contentedly and briefly close her eyes. My hand traveled to her tense shoulders and eventually down her spine, rubbing and kneading the soft skin until I heard her take some deep breaths and utter a few throaty, purring hums.

The rigid, wounded posture of her anatomy that she used as a defense against the world, slowly melted and her body curled closer into mine. Her lithe frame relaxed and I sensed a warming tremble move through her and a soft, glistening sheen appear to radiate through her pores. Her breathing became stronger and more regular. She turned over more fully onto her belly and allowed me to rub her lower back while she nestled her face into my thigh and mumbled how good it felt to have a warm, gentle hand caress her lonely form. Her reddish-blonde locks were spread haphazardly on my lap, and I detected the slow, even rise and fall of her back as she settled-in comfortably beside me. I was taken with her total relaxation, and how easily and carefree she seemed in my casual embrace. I hadn’t even realized that her gossamer gown had ridden up past her ribcage and that I could catch a glimpse of the soft undersides of her big tits being pressed into the plush cushions, or that I was now massaging bare flesh and feeling the warmth of her delicate skin under my trembling fingers. My own body and breathing were not quite so relaxed. That aching urge was again rumbling in my loins and threatening to expose my dark intent. It wasn’t being helped by the sensual view now filling my field of vision.

Her undies had become twisted and were taut against the plump folds of her soft ass. The crotch piece was wedged uncomfortably tight into her crack and I could see the outer lips of her pink labia. I marveled at the delicate folds and was surprised that they appeared to glimmer in the soft blue light of the TV. Her firm mounds were deliciously on display. My hand nervously edged to the sexy hollow of her lower back, and I was sorely tempted to let my fingers glide just a bit lower onto her rounded cheeks. I could feel that her body was growing suddenly tense and that she was grinding her hips into the sofa.

She gyrated slowly and tried craftily to release the pressure without drawing attention to her actions. Helen twisted and small grunts escaped her lips. Her shapely rear end actually seemed to lift off the couch and wriggle under my touch.

I didn’t understand if she was desiring that I continue with my exploration, so I tentatively lifted my hand for a second to gauge her reaction. Finally, she was forced to reach back and rearrange the tangled material and to pull down the flimsy gown, apologizing profusely for giving me “a rather vulgar display of your mother’s fat ass.” I had just dodged a potentially damning moment and was quite lucky that she was on her belly and not looking directly at me. I just laughed teasingly and assured her that her sexy body would be a prize for any discerning guy. And with a naughty wink, I playfully spanked her supple buns and may have allowed my palm to linger a moment too long on the spongy mounds. Fortunately, she made no reply other than to sheepishly grin.

Helen skeptically peeked at me out of the corner of one shaded, cobalt eye and for a brief second, I caught a quick glimpse of a half-smile before she buried a reddened face back into my lap. For the first time ever and not like a typical mother/son exchange, I believed I caught her permission to fondle her body in a more “adult” manner. But how could that ever be possible? I doubted the impression I’d received and continued to step lightly and mask my devious feelings.

In the meantime, in the few seconds that I spied her voluptuous curves, my seven inches of debauchery sprang to life. The next time that she attempted to reposition her head on my upper thigh she startled visibly. This pillow had grown rather lumpy. Helen was too modest to broach the subject, in fact she stammered to speak at all, but she quickly mentioned that it was time for bed and began to rise. Her blue eyes grew wide when she caught my embarrassed reaction and her lids dropped to hide the crimson blush rising from her neck to her hairline. Was she reading my thoughts? She hesitantly took another rapid glance at the prodigious bulge that was now tenting my shorts and she gathered her gown against her throat, clutching it tightly as if frightened. That motion served to hike the sheer material, forcing it to uncover her pink panties without her intent. As she scrambled to stand in front of me and remove herself from this indelicate situation, it suddenly became painfully obvious to the both of us that the gusset of her undies was turning a darker shade of red and that there was an enticing, sensual aroma in the air. Right before our eyes, a darker, damper splotch colored her pink panties.

Her hormones were surging and now her breathing was becoming rapid and erratic. Her perky nipples were nearly poking through the fine lace and her chest was rising and falling in uncontrollable waves. It was more than just spotting the raging hard-on in my shorts that was suddenly jutting from the loose leggings and rearing its flared purplish head into view. That sinister display would have placed the shameful blame of this scene entirely on me, as a leering son having impure, lewd thoughts about his own mother. But there was more to it than only that. I had not realized it at the moment, but it was apparent that the close contact and sensual touching had aroused her senses. Her own body belied her best intentions. She became nervous and jittery.

Helen’s facial features blushed readily and distorted her angular look. Her eyes suddenly flashed with confusion and her cheeks expanded rapidly like they’d been inflated. And her mouth hung open and gasped as if she could not get enough oxygen. Those long bare legs shuffled uneasily back and forth, and the painted nails clutched at the carpet to keep from toppling over. All in the span of a second, but it was impossible to hide, or to take back. Because she saw what I saw. As we both looked at her dampened crotch, and then the angry monster stirring at my pelvis, there could be no doubt that there was sexual tension sparking like electricity in the air. Her pointy nipples barely concealed by the sheer fabric, poked through the thin material and the sudden rush of sweat caused the gown to cling to her body, outlining every delightful fold and crevise. Her knees locked together and almost buckled while one hand gripped the hem of her gown forcing it down, in a vain attempt to hide the evident moisture seeping into her panties.

I was helpless in my own predicament, staring at my mom’s lusty build while my mischievous and lewd thoughts were instantly materialized by the dancing snake standing erect at my crotch. A tingly seepage of milky pre-cum oozed from the tip of my rock-solid erection and made shiny the dark, mushroomed dome of my cock. We both sensed and were uncomfortably confronted with the titillating tremor of taboo excitement that hovered above us.

My body shuddered noticeably as I hastened to stuff my engorged column back in my pants and to hurriedly cross my legs and disguise my anguish. I needed to tamp down the growing fury of my erection as it was straining to let loose its liquid fire. Already, as I maneuvered the writhing shaft back inside my shorts; a thin, sticky vine of oily fluid stretched from the tip of my helmeted cock to the desperately shaking fingers trying their best to corral the intruder. It was so engorged and stiff, that I needed both hands to stuff it back into place. Out of sight for a minute but not done with its phallic prompt, the ignition was lit. It was like a salami about to burst. I could feel the unsubtle trembling as the momentum rose through the shaft, and tried desperately to think about batting averages or term papers. Anything that would dampen the fuse. I was squirming in my seat and unable to fully stop the flow as I felt the first trickle of fluid drip from the tip and slide down the length, darkening the pulsating mound between my legs. I desperately wanted to wrap my hand around the sturdy shaft and pump it to its robust conclusion, but in this situation, I could not. And so I was forced to sit dubiously as my lower half shook and the usual thrust of my tool was reduced to a limpid drizzle that oozed pathetically but agonizingly down the coiled length of my deflating rod. I could not help but slowly turn my attention to my mother as I silently groaned, and the sticky puddle embarrassingly grew in my shorts.

With her hand still clutching the gown to her throat but hereyes never deviating from my crotch, I saw that the palm of that hand was perched on the upper half of her left breast and there was obviously some pressure being applied to the heaving globe. And as her grip on the neck lightened she shifted positions, her hand was now under her tit, lifting and seeming to weigh it as her fingers traced tiny circles around the pert nipple. With each slow, sensual navigation of the hefty mammary, her sexy hips shifted from side to side, and back and forth. With each shift of her weight, those sexy boobs bounced enticingly. Mom’s mouth was hanging obscenely open and a small line of slobber leaked from her lips. The hand that had been covering her groin now seemed to be pressing against it and the fingers twirling in between her thighs. With her finger tips turning white, it was evident that she was pushing down a little bit harder. Small grunts esca[ped her lips.

She then caught my expression of embarrassed bemusement as it seemed we were both trapped in an unwieldy dilemma. Realizing the effect of this twenty-second interlude on both of our bodies; try as she might to calmy extricate the hand from its cupping posture under her breast and drag it away from her heaving bosom, and to shift her weight to camouflage the wet spot in her groin, and the slowly deflating form of my half-spent cock clearly marked by the dampened shroud of my shorts, it was undeniable that we both had just experienced an unplanned, seduction-free, physical stimulation to a highly erotic, semi-incestual, but all too brief coupling. The main question though, was what triggered it? And what exactly did it mean?

This might take a minute to sort out. There we were, basically frozen in place. Each of us cynically avoiding eye contact while we were less than two feet apart. And as quickly as our limbs moved to assume a more natural, socially acceptable position of innocence, there could be no hiding the fact that our respective virtues had been inelegantly compromised while in the immediate company of each other. The seeping bulge in my shorts and the trance-like stupor that held me in its grip left me stunned like a deer in the headlights.

Mom, despite all of the jittery dance steps and the fleeting attempts to smooth her rumpled clothing and to vigorously mop the telltale sweat from her brow in a non-sexual, lady-like manner could only utter incoherent gasps and groans. Her body was still moist from flop-sweat and her breasts shone through the lacy material like beacons. And most mortifying to her was the pinkish triangle of material nearly glowing in its distinctiveness between the damp fabric that clung to her hips, and that humiliating center strip of darker color that couldn’t disguise her wetness. In another second, without an intelligible word voiced but with an unmistakably expressive show of shame that began at her icy-blue orbs and traveled to her hot-pink toenails, a look that was fraught with tremulous meaning, she darted from the room and I heard the door to the bathroom slam shut behind her. This had all the makings of an uncomfortable night.

I could hear the splash of bathwater as I shuffled to my bed. Trying not to imagine my mother’s glistening torso as she settled into a warm tub while staring at my own raging cock as I lay warily in bed, only produced agonizingly slow torture. With every little ripple of water or halting sigh that I detected through the thin wall that kept us apart, I harkened back to those frozen moments in the living room where I unmistakably caught my mom in the throes of masturbatory pleasure. And the quirky, confounding visage that had me thinking. Was she totally embarrassed at my having seen her practically fingering her own cunt? Or was she so enthralled at the sight of my raging erection and her having been the source of its enlargement, that she couldn’t help but play with her pussy? Was she so blatantly offering herself to me in a moment of submissive weakness, and was disappointed and distraught that I didn’t take her up on her proposition? Or were we merely entangled in an inappropriate and highly bizarre scenario that neither of us should have witnessed, and must trust that we will never speak of it again?

When is it permissible to have explicit and degrading sexual fantasies about the semi-nude, warm, wet body that just minutes ago, was reclining in your lap and had apparently experienced the exact sexual tingling in both her mind and body that you did- if it’s your mother!?! And how do you explain that same sexual urgency to yourself, to her, or heaven-forbid later to the prison psychiatrist? And how exactly do you suppress it?

My belly and pubic hair were damp and crusty with the flaky remains of my first truly unsatisfying discharge in years. All I could see in my perverted vision was my mom, undulating in rapt pleasure (I think,) underneath me as I caressed her soft flesh. She was so smitten with my erotic massage and gentle touch that she needed to play with herself right in front of me. And she couldn’t take her lovely blue eyes from the sight of my massive cock. And what should have been a tremendous explosion of cum and a triumphal signal of my masculinity, instead became a sickly, watery discharge that was only allowed to dribble from my constricted cock, mocking me in front of the woman of my dreams.

The half-limp organ laid like a flattened tire in the sweaty, coarse curls of my pubic thatch. The lidless eye stared at me in disbelief as I tried to rouse it back to full attention, just picturing my mother’s naked body soaking on the other side of this wall. My grip tightened around the withered pole, pumping and stretching it to its full girth and length. Gradually as the seductive image came back into focus, her warm body with rivulets of steaming water cascading down between her shimmering cleavage, the wrinkles disappeared from my tool and the meaty organ had that familiar feeling again. A pulsing pressure-point of anticipation just below the helmeted tip was urging my hand to glide up and down the firm column of flesh and with my palm increasing the tension, it was ready to supply the normal level of sublime fulfillment.

I was so close to fucking my mother, I kept repeating to myself as I stroked the aching organ in my grip. I felt the digits hover over the domed cap enough to spread the oily lubrication down the veiny length. With each swipe of my enclosed fist, the shaft of smooth flesh throbbed and seemed to take in breath. It enlarged and engorged itself until it resembled a sleek, curved bowling pin of wet marble, heavy as a club and ready for use.

I have “pulled the goalie” many times and though it always produces the desired effect, at my age I’m usually left feeling miserable and ashamed. But this time, stretching my swollen cock and pumping it with the rapid motion of a shotgun, while picturing the plump, pink lips of my sexy mother wrapped tightly around the bulging circumference of my pounding rod, was thrill enough to shoot a load of cum almost over my head and nearly splattering across my own face. As I wiped the sticky swampland of fluid from my body, I was stricken with an image of the lower regions of hell. One orgasm was a leaky, limpid disater. The next, a fountain of incestuous imbecility.

In my mind, I knew that the lewd thoughts of my disillusioned mother soaking away her own anxiety and fear just a few feet away, should not have triggered this incestuous fantasy of debauchery. I had obviously caught her at a highly vulnerable point, thinking of her prospects and passions, while experiencing the life-blood of emotions that everybody has, and then unwittingly revealing them to her supposedly adult son. This should not be cause for a major jerk-off delusion! And yet even after the deluge had subsided, my cock remained solid and ready to perform again.

Then in the stillness, I heard her emerge from the bath. I could explicitly visualize her naked, dripping torso as she stepped from the tub. The strawberry-blonde locks in a tussled bun at her neck, fragrant bubbles of lotion clinging to the wet strands. Wisps of hair cling to her bare, golden shoulders and frame her worried face. Flushed from emotion and the steamy water, a redness colored her sharp cheekbones and brought out the dazzling blue hue of her eyes. But her plump red lips couldn’t hide the fact that she had bitten them hard for most of her bath, and the twinkle in her eyes didn’t veil the conflicting, erotic torments that battled for her attention.

When her toes touch the carpet, the water flowed down her gorgeous anatomy. The steamy frame; reddened from the hot suds glisten as the stream funnels between her tits and aims for the light-brown landing strip of kinky curls that guard her most private opening. I could picture the puffy lips of her labia after she presumably spent her bathtime fingering the petals of her private flower. She probably laid her head back against a folded towel, sinking as much of her body under the warm flow as she could. Only the pointy tips of her buoyant breasts peaked above the water level. The layer of sudsy foam washed over her, but a translucent outline of her floating form would be discernable. As her hand swept towards her pubes, the tide of warm bubbles flooded along her stomach and washed against her chin.

The erect tips of her rubbery nubs drew her fingers to them, and she gently stretched and rubbed the sensitive nipples while circling the pebbly edges of the darker-toned areola. Helen’s eyes closed as she imagined that it was a stranger’s hand or maybe even his pinching teeth that pulled the taut flesh and heightened the sensual stimulation. She would be alternately purring like a kitten and then moaning like a whore.

When her self-conducted foreplay set the mood, she was ready to progress to the next stage. Her nipples were now sufficiently tender and swollen, poking up above the surface of the water like tiny pink periscopes and her hand continued to knead and caress the soapy globes. Down below in the foamy triangle, her other hand caused a whirlpool of watery friction to roil the suds and buffet the dainty skin. Helen had a set routine that always calmed her antsy yearnings while bringing her genital nerve endings to a heightened sense of arousal. Two fingers would lightly tease the tender orifice by tickling the fleshy hood, luring the tiny nub into the open. She massaged the sensitive niblet, causing her highly-tensed hips to quiver and shake with orgasmic anticipation. She knew from general practice just how much she could stand and what the tremors and twitches from her uterus signified.

At this point, she lowered her hungry body even further into the warm, sudsy water, submerging her upper half to her chin but now lifting her long, bare legs to the sides. She directed the powerful stream of the faucet to wash over her convulsing pubic area, applying a steady pulsing flow to rain on her pleasure center. The drenching shower tapped repeatedly on the exposed finger of flesh peeking from its protective hood. The shock to her system sent waves of ecstasy throughout her quivering anatomy. Lightning bolts of delight shot through her system. And brought her to the very brink of orgasmic eruption. Helen’s body rocked and shivered under the soapy surface as her limber frame basked in the twitching build-up of energy about to detonate in her sodden cunt. A couple of slender, exploring digits splayed the sensitive outer lips and pried open the cavern to their demanding approach. She felt the exciting tremors of desire working a path to meet the incoming fingers and realized the moment was near.

To my warped mind, confined to listening voyeuristically through the walls, I concluded that this ritual took on a new phase for her. A twist that was brought on by the uncertain realization that in her frazzled mind an incestuous, lewd fling with her well-hung stud of a son, would fulfill her most basic and carnal urges. She desperately tried to ignore this passion. But she wasn’t allowed. Her fingers worked furiously to tunnel into that intimate sanctum, a spot no other person in years has had access to, a spot that I calculated that she was saving for me.

She tightly clenched her eyes and cleared her head, centering all feelings and emotions to that long-deprived “Y” and allowing her fingers to reach deep inside searching for that mysterious destination that launches her into the stratosphere of delight. Her feelings at these times were always magnified if she could request that the “stranger” who had been caressing her tits, would now lower his face to her appreciative pussy. She could sense his tongue lapping at the edges of her folds and darting into the moist recesses of those slippery walls. This man’s touch could bring these marvelous sensations to her aching body and her imagination soared under the influence of this anonymous manipulation. And when his raspy tongue had thoroughly lubricated her moist passage, he would require her to beg for the use of his mammoth cock. It was no longer her own digits that delved so deep, penetrating through to the inner recesses of her vagina. She imagined that it was his enormous rod that plowed her wanton furrows. Helen could always count on this stranger- impersonal as he was- to appear when she needed him and then dissappear just as readily. No hassles.

And she could see clearly the large, solid cock that was opening her like a clam. It was streaked with rigid bluish veins that crisscrossed its cylindrical column and had a flared, purplish head that seemed obscenely robust for her tiny orifice. This singular cock was etched in her memory as something she so desired and hungered for. Usually, it was just a tool that she dreamed of while her fingers were busy exploring those wet folds, but this was different. This particular man’s cock was special. She had a vivid image of the straining, vibrant tube as the only tool that would scratch her singular itch. This was the cock that would bring out the woman in her. The cock that would mark her as this fantasy man’s property, to fuck him when he pleased. And for it to provide the pleasure in her pussy and in her soul, that only it could deliver. She needed this cock and was desperate for it. To possess it, she would debase and demean herself. Slavishly begging for his domination of her slutty holes. She would suck it and fuck it, whatever he demanded to bring her the guilty pleasure of an explosive sexual climax. Plus the internal, salacious dream to be his pet.

Helen’s mouth was alternately open and churning like a steam engine and then tightly closed, trying to keep the shameful slobber from oozing down her chin and reckoning how much pressure her lips would need to apply to such a stiff, meaty cock if she wished to suck it to the back of her wanton throat. The stranger took turns driving his huge tool into her mouth and then teasing her as he selfishly removed it. Only to then push it through the narrow gorge formed when she pressed her bouncy tits together. She was made to hold the sides of her breasts firmly while he slid the sleek pole into the warm gap. He would direct his firm rod towards her slick cleavage, sending it back and forth, fucking her tits and bumping it against her chin. Over and over before she was nearly hypnotized by its rhythmic assault on her body. This continued until the head appeared at the top of her glistening globes, shiny and dripping with her sweat. Then he would command that she open her mouth and allow the domed head to enter her. It bobbed against the back of her throat as he forced it on, gagging her and stuffing her cheeks like a chipmunk. Her mouth filled with slobber and indecent grunts of pleasure and pain escaped her swollen lips. Secretly, she craved the feel of such a tool stretching her mouth wide as it expanded and coating the insides with its creamy syrup. It would bump against her tonsils, leaving a slimey, white mark on her throat. Then she must use her pink tongue to paint sloppy circles around the massive head of it, and follow that by licking the veiny shaft and preparing it for its next lewd task.

When he was sufficiently certain that she had covered the smooth piston with her saliva, and she was rutting like a slut in heat, he took it away from her leaving her helpless as a child who had been deprived of her candy. Then to torture her further, he slowly removed it entirely, letting it linger for a moment just out of her reach and traced a path down her abdomen, and held it at the straining entrance of her ravenous cunt. How could this phantom manipulate her so easily? What possible hold could he have on her? Helen’s hips were bucking and lunging to accept this marvelous present. He tortures her with his deliberateness and her pelvis twists and opens to accept him deep inside. The stranger has licked her folds and flicked at the tender clit until she is on the edge of desperation, eager and willing to be stuffed and defiled. Her body opens willingly to his desire.

Soon the thrashing in the sudsy water signaled that the moment of climax had arrived. Her soft hips pumped against the porcelain, the torrent of foaming fluids beat down on her yearning cunt and her hand was a blur, rapidly abrading the delicate folds while her palm mashed the protruding niblet of pleasure. Banshee screams of orgasmic relief reverberated off the tile walls and echoed in the solitary confines. Her frame shuddered and ripples of ecstasy fluttered her belly and uterus. Yet no hint of embarrassment or reserve could stifle her cries. The image was vivid of the stranger pumping her full of his seed while her release and total abandonment threatened to drown her in the four inches of suds. The spasms rocked her slender frame and her body acted as if something was alive inside.

For ten wonderful minutes, her body thrashed in the soft soapy mix, creating eddies of passion that swirled between her jellied legs. The climax rippled and convulsed her twitching torso until her spent body was wrung out and empty. She realized after the tremors subsided that her fingers had been plunged to the webbing and scraped the reddened inner walls of her pussy. The temporary pain in her hungry snatch awakened her senses. The young, virile stranger of her dreams was lying atop her supine body. His powerful manhood had just pumped the last of his milky jism into her molten depths. She pushed her fingers one last time into the honeypot, wanting his every last drop to fill that emptiness. Her body let loose.

She muffled an urgent, desperate plea to the stranger to be taken and sated in the most lecherous way. Promising to give herself over to his forceful demands if only he continues to grant these remarkable gifts. Finally, her insides give way to the life-essence of her sexuality, and even in the comforting waters, she is wise to the difference of her own hot fluids seeping out and mingling in her bath. For a brief time, she simply laid back, an empty, lifeless husk of used flesh. Then her limp, drained shell sunk slowly into the steamy surroundings and gradually the non-sexual half of her brain came back to consciousness.

As her eyes cleared and leisurely opened, she caught a fleeting glimpse of the young man withdrawing his steely tool and unfolding himself from between her battered thighs; this man who had brought her such pleasures, now placing one gentle, wet kiss on each of her perky nipples, proudly displaying for her approval the shiny, dewy lance that she bent forward to place a parting kiss on and taste the last of his salty seed. As he faded into memory, his visage could only be seen in a passionate haze. This was always enough to satisfy her lust before but today was different. An anonymous vision that gratified her and disappeared was fine, now in the steam and foggy afterglow, the puzzle was coming together. Try as she might to fight the presence of the lewd intruder, the animalistic image cleared.

The crooked, leering smile and the awkward nod of acknowledgment. It was unmistakably Mickey. She recoiled with instant awareness of the dicey occurrence of her son in this suddenly incestuous daydream. He emerged as if conjured, to drape a shadowy curtain of crude, illicit desire that would haunt her now. What was he doing invading her dream sequence? Or was she dreaming of him and her feverish brain resisted comprehension until the very end? Abruptly, she needed to remember if, in the thralls of her passion, she may have screamed something incriminating or possibly shouted out a name that could never be spoken in this situation. Especially as she recently often wondered, does he sit on the other side of that wall and listen to her innermost deviant fantasies?

Had she been thinking of Mickey? Had she been thinking of fucking Mickey? Did she want to fuck Mickey? The lewd obsession swirled in her brain and she couldn’t let it go. Helen thrashed in the water as if she’d seen a shark fin, and scrambled to get out of the tub. She stood shivering in front of the mirror, but not from any sudden temperature change. The chilly water slowly funneled to the broad “Y” at her middle. Her blonde pussy hair was knotted and dripping wet as if she were peeing down her thigh. Two small droplets clung tenaciously to the tips of her pert breasts. She felt an expansive ripple of goose-pimples cover her lithe frame, and hoped that it was merely from the chill. The figure staring back at her from the glass was one that she had trouble recognizing. There was a slight pocket of extra flesh at her abdomen and the heavy D-cups showed the weight of her advancing years. They bounced and jiggled nicely enough- still capable of catching eyes. But there was a sinister shadow behind the naked lady in the reflection.

Why, she wondered would any young man- let alone her son- want an aged, overweight, almost non-sexual woman like the one staring back at her? She hoped that a negative response would quell the fire in her aching cunt and allow her to return to her normal fantasy. Wait… why did she include her son in that assessment? Why would she still be standing here naked and shivering, thinking about Mickey? Why didn’t she keep a bottle of vodka in the bathroom?

Helen rushed to cover her nudity with a plush towel, and prayed that this self-examination would end entirely. And she avoided as best she could, the slutty, brazen image who unabashedly just fingered herself to a seismic orgasm while dreaming of her young son jamming his swollen cock first into her hungry mouth, and then deep into her wanton, desperate cunt. Helen felt the walls closing in on the steamy, mirrored room and raced down the hall to the cocoon of iciness in her lonely bed. The muffled footsteps and slamming doors alerted Mickey to the move. And when he heard the heavy recoil of bedsprings as though his mother threw herself on the mattress, instead of her normal procedure of brushing her lovely locks and applying lotion to her fine skin, he stopped his exercise in mid stroke.

Just the thought of her as she would massage the rich oil into her supple flesh and smooth the aromatic cream along her silken thighs could always be counted on to bring him to full arousal. He’d think of her rubbing the ointment along her fine neck and to her shoulders. Then her hands would lift the soft undersides of her supple breasts and spread the cream longingly around the heft of those weighty mounds. He could picture himself standing behind her and cupping her pliant boobs in his palms, the fingers kneading her like warm dough and pinching those pink nipples. His sweaty paws would never let her alone. He wished to possess her. And he believed that she craved the same thing.

It started innocently. He would occasionly be asked to warm his hands together and then gently rub the scented lotions onto her broad shoulders and down the curve of her back until he’d reached that favorite part of his, the concave indenture at the base of her spine and the enticingly molded mounds of her sculpted bottom. Even at this age,the memory of seeing and touching his mother’s naked back while he rubbed oil on her glistening torso, and his imagination as to what lies beneath those taut undies, would stay with him. His first truly wicked thoughts about this woman’s body emerged from this seductive urge to reach under his mother’s panties, and with greasy, groping fingers to squeeze and knead those pliant buns.

Now, having recently been permitted to let his own hands stroll along that arched spine and feel her ribs beneath his touch, envisioning the full, sensuous tits crushed on to the sofa, and being so near to her special place he could taste it, he wanted more. And seeing with his own eyes the telltale wetness at her crotch, that proved beyond anything that she could say- or not say- how much pleasure he could bring to her. Then spying her sexy blue eyes concentrate so determinedly, even for the briefest second, on his booming erection and the sensual effect it had on her perky nipples, he “knew” that she must be falling under his influence. His hand again clasped the stiffened cylinder and began a vigorous pumping motion. With two unsatisfactory discharges already, both to the accompaniment of his naked mom, this time needed to be rewarding.

Helen was tucked into her queen bed, feeling instantly small and alone. She threw off her terry robe and laid dejectedly on her back. The softness of satin sheets as they conformed and soothed her anxious body calmed the trembling spasms that racked her frame. She felt like she was going through menopause with the instant mood swings and temperature changes. Her body, so recently tingling with ecstasy, then jilted to reality and sent reeling in a muddled quandary, now shivered as her sweaty torso suddenly cooled down. Perspiration dampened her hair, but her frigid nipples felt as if they would crack if touched. Her pussy was damp from her recent bath but the moisture along her groin was a mixture of sweat and her own secretions. She was tormented with emotional guilt even though she had done nothing wrong. And now she struggled with the notion that her aching womb desperately hungered for something that every taboo, deviant urge warned her was extremely forbidden.

As she wrestled with her conscience, her hand exhibited a determined will of its own. Her treacherous limb kept inching closer to her squirming pelvis, on the dubious pretense that her cold fingers could be warmed by holding them between her warm thighs. The guttural moans from her dry throat and tingling tickle from the depths of her uterus alerted her that this could not be correct. The chill though was replaced but by a steadily rising, portentous heat.

The taunting image would not go away. In fact, the more she tried to ignore it, the more persistent it became. Helen’s hand was nervously nestled in her crotch, but she attempted to convince herself to move it. An incubus-like spirit held it firmly in place and manipulated the digits so that they pawed at her captive vagina. The image of Mickey’s leering countenance swooped into her brain and hurried the fingers along their salacious path. Why would her mind allow her son’s angelic smile to be replaced in her eyes by that of a lecherous deviant who had just licked her pussy to an excruciating agitation, and was flaunting his fleshy spear in preparation of plucking her rose? She conjured crude scenarios of lust, forcing her fingers deeper into her starving cavern to quench the fire. In all of them, her son’s brown eyes hypnotized her and his swaying, cobra of a cock kept her entranced. Her palm teased the wiry curls that outlined her most precious orifice and pressed the stiffened, swollen clit. And two fingers snaked further into her hot, wet canal.

Her cunt moistened anew, sending electric ripples of sensual delight through her body as if touched by a live wire. She was lost in a delirious state. “Yes Mickey, oh Gawd yes!”

Her fingers were now slick with her body’s natural lubrication and they delved deeper into the fiery tunnel that was the source and treasure of her hunger. She told herself that these lewd, impertinent cravings were incestuous and strictly taboo. But from that special place inside of her, she could hear Mickey’s reply that if the two of them weren’t hurting anybody, and if they relieved the built-up sexual tension and feelings of sincere longing, “What could be the harm?” She nodded subconsciously in agreement.

The searching digits poked and twisted inside her moist walls and the piston action grew more pronounced. Her moaning and muffled shrieks were more intense. She was cupping her breasts and twisting the taut nipples, begging him to suck and bite the engorged tips. “Incest,” she kept repeating silently, still feeling twinges of unease, “maybe it is only a word.” But she continued to plow into her tight little snatch and to rapidly abrade the stubby reddened clit. Successive waves of delirium swept through her quivering frame and she was on the brink of an ear-splitting climax.

Driven to the very edge of reason with her body shaking uncontrollably and her hips humping the soaked mattress, her vivid imagination implored her son to take her. This was no longer an anonymous stranger that would visit her fantasies when she was feeling low, whose face in a haze, would supplement her frantic fingers. This mystery partner whom she wished would dominate her body and fill her sexual needs, had taken shape and was a stranger no more. She recognized his face and could summon his name. And most awkwardly and crude, she had physically kissed him for years, and tonight had actually seen his giant cock.

She pleaded with him to use his pointy tongue on her deprived clit and bring her to the ultimate sexual crescendo. Then she would accept his huge hose into her trampy gullet and put a shine on it to show her appreciation. Every nerve ending was about to fire at once. Helen begged her son to lick her to climax as her fingers drove her insane with lust. Her sodden pussy was alive and eager to be taken. Incest be damned.

In his solemn confines with his ear tuned to the uncommon rumblings from his mother’s room, his own energies had been steered towards his relief. But now with the haunting urge to yank his stiff tool to the craven image of his mom’s naked, over-heated body, he heard the low moaning whispers. He distinctly heard his own name being mumbled in a hoarse, begging tone. It seems she was calling to him and he hurried toward her. His throbbing cock was at full attention and his grip was tight around the swollen shaft. Even in this condition he felt compelled to search for her. He padded down the carpeted hall, stopping just outside her door, and listened to the hushed, plaintive wishes coming from inside. Could he really just burst into his mother’s room, with his cock in his hand? Overcome with the urges of a young man’s sex drive, he was literally shaking with desire, but this situation was both abrupt and absurd and demanded careful reasoning. As always when his hand was filled with cock, reason went out the window.

“This had to be a dream,” he reasoned. Did he misread her intent, and was he thinking with his dick? Earlier in the evening, she was undoubtedly on the verge of climax when they sat together, and he often visualized her playing with her pretty pussy, but could this be true? Maybe she wasn’t thinking of him, at all? That would be incest! But he had to know, his knees were rattling and his erection was at the boiling point. He tip-toed to the door and quietly turned the handle, his heart in his throat. The door opened a crack and in the soft light from a waning moon, he witnessed an incredible sight.

Helen was sprawled naked on the bed with the sheets tossed aside. Her eyes were clenched shut but she was not sleeping. One hand caressed her tits, rolling the perky nipples between her thumb and finger, alternately squeezing them both and kneading the tender flesh. He watched as the pressure applied by her fingertips caused small waves to ripple on her supple bosum. When she lifted one and pinched the taut flesh, it was as if she were selecting ripe fruit. He stood wide-eyed and slack-jawed. The other hand was buried to the webbing of her fingers, plunging repeatedly into her gaping maw. Mickey could smell and taste the hormones in the air. He gawked in complete surprise when he saw her middle and ring fingers, shiny with dew and sticky from the silky tendrils of fluid trailing each successive plunge into her dank passage. “Take me please, Mickey,” he heard her beg faintly, in a submissive, pleading gasp. “You’re right,” she uttered. “It’s only the two of us and no one needs to know. I want your cock!” Her fingers were working her in to a feverish rush. Helen was writhing on the bed with her creamy fluids seeping out of her and the squishing, slapping sound of her hand ramming against her distended folds.

He cautiously pushed the door enough to squeeze his body into the room, and slowly inched the few steps closer to her bedside. Mickey was stunned, yet fascinated to observe his naked mother fully exposed and entirely vulnerable. Her long legs were splayed apart and bent at the knees, and her hips were thrusting violently to match the rhythm of her wiggling digits. From this view, he could see both her tight little pussy and her brownish rear orifice. The reddish-purple folds of her outer lips winked open. Her fingers were shiny from the viscous fluid and strumming the tiny, hooded appendage so furiously. His motions now matched hers. He was stroking his large rod, using the pre-cum oozing from the tip to grease the friction. The pumping noise seemed loud to his ears and he feared that she might open her eyes and scream in terror at the sudden intrusion in her bedroom. Plus, in another minute he would squirt a hot load of milky sauce across her pliant, anxious anatomy.

Helen’s crystal blue eyes were tightly squeezed shut, but she was semi-conscious and babbling under her breath. Her mouth was stretched in obscene dimensions and her tongue wagged, leaving traces of drool drizzling from the bottom lip. Her cheeks were rapidly inflating and breathing hard like a bellows as if an invisible cock was being fed into it and jamming her throat. A hand cradled both tits in the crook of her arm while the palm roughly grasped a firm globe and the plump, pink nipple peeked between her fingers.