Hello reader,
This is my first effort in this genre, I hope it quenches any thirst you may have.
I will shoot straight with you, reader: there is no actual sex between the mum and son in this story, it’s more of a voyeuristic tale, but there is plenty of sexual goings on. Give it a chance, it might just work for you 🙂
This is a one-part story for now. Depending on how it’s received, I may tackle a second part.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
*****
Once a mindless working week has been put to bed, all I want to do of a Friday evening is sit in front of the TV, my trackies on and a big bowl of pasta in my hand. I set this grand plan in motion as soon as I walked through the front door.
I’d only been home for around ten minutes or so, but I had already changed out of my oppressive work clothes and into my comfy lounge wear and put my pasta onto boil. I was impressed with my determination to get in front of the TV as quick as possible. The pasta was soon simmering and within a minute or two it was ready to be lathered with delicious sauce and cheese. The pieces were all falling into place.
With my pasta in hand and my head in the clouds I headed to the living room to complete the final phase of my grand plan: sit and watch TV until I could no longer keep my eyes open. Well, the best laid plans and all that… See, what I had not counted on, on this particular Friday, was my mother being sat on the sofa watching Netflix. ‘Shit!’ I thought to myself, my grand plan had crumbled before my very eyes.
Despite being in my mid-twenties, I was still living at home; just mum and I. It had been just mum and I since my dad died; I was fifteen at the time, mum would’ve been forty-one, I think. In the ten years since he passed mum hasn’t dated. I’m sure she had had plenty of suitors, she is, and I’m being as objective as I can, a good looking woman in decent shape. She has aged respectfully. Not turning into a withered widow, which would’ve been well within in her rights to do so. Even with all this in mind she hadn’t taken the plunge back into the dating pool. I’m speculating, but I think that dad was the one for her, the one and only. Despite that, I could tell that she was lonely. Who wouldn’t be? Often I would find her looking at old photos of dad. She would always tell me how similar I looked to him; I had his thick black hair, his hazel eyes and his six-foot plus height. I served as a constant reminder of the man she had loved and lost. That can’t be easy. On a couple of occasions I asked her if she would want to get back out there and find herself a new companion, but she’d just bat the question away and change the subject. I realise it’s not my place to worry, but she must still have needs that need to be met? Besides, if she’s out there, dating, then she isn’t sat on the sofa watching TV when I want to be!
Anyway, Mum getting to the TV first was not out of the norm, even still, I was annoyed.
“Hello, darling” she said, sat in my spot.
“You alright?” I asked through gritted teeth. What I really wanted to do was tell her to get out of my spot and let me watch the TV, but I didn’t.
“Yeah, just tired; slow day today.” she replied. Mum worked with the elderly; I just assumed every day was slow.
“You doing anything tonight?” Mum enquired,
“Nah, no plans… I was just hoping to stay in and watch some TV…” as I said this I was looking longingly at the big TV across the room. The not so subtle look was not lost on mum, she rolled her eyes,
“You can watch it in here, if you want. I’m going to go up early.” Mum sighed, and before I could do a half-hearted protest, gathered up her things and climbed up off the sofa. I felt bad. Maybe I should have asked her to stay and watch some TV with me? The two of us never do anything together. These days we just pass each other in the hall or the kitchen or outside the bathroom. She’ll ask how my day was, I’ll ask how hers was. That’s about it, really.
I sat down on the sofa, feeling guilty, and tucked into my pasta. The feeling of guilt was soon suffocated by pasta and cheese. As planned, the hours rolled by and countless episodes of my favourite shows were watched. I was shocked when I looked at my phone and it was nearly 12am; once I knew how late it was my eyelids became instantly heavy. Going up to bed seemed like the smart move at this point, but I thought I might be able to squeeze out one more show. Again, the best laid plans…
I shot upright, dazed and confused as to where I was, though, I ought not to have been, this wasn’t the first time I have crashed out in front of the TV, and I suppose it would not be the last. I must’ve been sleeping for some time, as the TV had turned itself off. I sat there, shrouded in darkness. I blindly scrambled for my phone, once I found it I held it up to my face; the light from the phone blinded me momentarily, my eyes soon adjusted, the digital clock informed me it was bang on 3am. I puffed out my cheeks and rubbed my sleepy eyes. I contemplated sprawling out on the sofa and just sleeping there but my bladder had other ideas. I was certain that this recent need to constantly pee in the night wasn’t meant to start until I was well into my thirties. Knowing full well this was a battle I could not win, I sighed a big sigh and dragged my weary carcass up off the sofa in search of the toilet and then my bed.
Fortunately for me the moon had decided to show its face that night; its glow shone down through the skylight above and illuminated the house. I ascended the stairs as quietly as I could, treading carefully so as not to wake my sleeping mum. Due to the houses age you’d be hard pressed to have found a floorboard or stair that didn’t creak. I, however, had spent a large part of my teenage years memorising every creak and crack, where to step and where not to step. It was useful intel to have at that age when wanting to sneak downstairs and play the PlayStation in the wee hours.
I reached the top of the stairs; the bathroom was at the opposite end of the hallway, right next to mum’s bedroom. I crept as quietly as a mouse towards my destination. As I reached the bathroom door, though I was stopped in my tracks by a sound. The source of the sound seemed to be coming from mum’s room. I furrowed my brow; at this time of night the house ought to have been deathly silent, I would normally be asleep and so would mum. I stood, frozen in the moonlight, listening carefully. It happened again. ‘What is that?’ I thought, but I couldn’t make it out, it was too low and muffled. The third time it was louder and clearer. It sounded like a heavy breath. ‘Is that mum?’ I wondered. ‘Is she okay?’ I thought. ‘Is she snoring? Is she sick? Having a bad dream?’ I was concerned.
I stepped away from the bathroom and edged closer to mum’s door, the sound continued and as I stepped closer to her door it sounded like it was gathering pace. In hindsight, I should have realised what I was hearing immediately, instead I only realised once I had softly pressed my ear to her door: it wasn’t snoring nor the sound of a sick person nor a person having a bad dream: it was breathless panting, it was moaning. She was moaning. Mum was moaning. My eyes widened and I pulled away from that door like it had just burst into flames. ‘Maybe she’s in discomfort?’ I tried to rationale. These were not the moans of a woman in discomfort, they were the moans of a woman in ecstasy. The moans of masturbation. ‘Oh, God!’ My heart was racing. I stood dumbfounded, I had no idea what to do with myself. This was all wrong, I shouldn’t have been there, I shouldn’t have been hearing what I was hearing, this private and personal and intimate moment. Not for my ears. I looked down the hallway terrified that I was about to be caught in this terrible act. I felt like I was on look out during a jailbreak. Her faint moans continued, seeping through her door. ‘I can’t stand here. Go to your room!’ I told myself ‘Go to your room right this second!’ Interestingly, though, I didn’t. Not immediately, anyway. I continued to listen for a few more moments, for a few more moans. ‘What are you doing?” I asked myself, ‘MOVE!’ I commanded. This time I acted and with much haste. I turned away from mum’s door and I made a beeline for my bedroom.
‘What the fuck was that?’ I roared internally, as I closed my door. ‘Did that just happen?’ I was in total shock. ‘I should not have heard that’ I told myself. ‘Why did I listen so long? Why?’ So many questions, ‘What is wrong with you?’ My mind could not process all this, or it didn’t want to. My heart was beating rapidly; I needed my bed. I stripped off all my clothes and climbed into the warm embrace of my bed. I closed my eyes and hoped sleep would claim me. It didn’t though. I shifted restlessly, desperately trying to get comfortable and forget what had just happened, but I couldn’t, the questions continued. I rolled onto my side, onto my front and then back onto my back.
I sighed and stared upwards into the darkness. I tried to clear my head, but I couldn’t, it was right there in my head: the moaning. Mum’s moaning. I tried to shift my thoughts elsewhere, but I couldn’t. The muffled moans replayed in my head, over and over. I tossed and turned, trying to physically shake these forbidden sounds from my mind. It didn’t work. ‘Stop this’, I scowled at myself, ‘What are you doing?’ The moans continued, it felt as though they had been set to play on repeat, to torture me. The more I tried to stop, the more I thought of her. If I thought that the sound in my head was torture, then I don’t know what you’d call the visuals that I soon conjured up: mum’s face twisted and contorted in the throws of pleasure; the audio and the visual became one, perfectly in-sync. ‘Oh, Jesus!’ I screamed inwardly. The camera in my mind pulled away from mum’s face, revealing her nude body to me, her hand at her centre, moving rhythmically. I threw my head back hard against my pillow, ‘Stop this!’ I didn’t.
Mum continued in my head, she moved temptingly, her hand pleasuring her core. I had begun to lengthen out. I could not fathom what was happening. This sordid and forbidden imagery had consumed me; it had suddenly taken control of my mind and now it was taking control of my body. My nipples were steel. My whole body clenched. I tried to fight, but the harder I fought these taboo thoughts the harder I became. The volume in my head began to increase. The moans grew louder. I kicked off my covers. My heart was racing, I clenched my fists as hard as I could, digging my nails into my palms; desperately trying to derail my train of thought. Mum moaned louder still, she began to pant. Her hand moved faster. I gritted my teeth, ‘Don’t you do it!’ I warned myself. The warning was not heeded. ‘Please, no’… I exhaled and my entire body unclenched, the fight had gone out of me, the dissenting voice stopped. The green light had been given, the towel had been thrown in: I snatched my stiffness in my hand and I began to stroke myself up and down.
I was tentative at first, but once the blood had rushed and made me fully taut, I did not hold back. I let it rip. It was ferocious. My hand must have been a blur, I was pumping myself so fast. My poor cock must have wondered what it had done to be treated this way, I was merciless. Mum’s moans and gyrating continued a pace in my mind’. I knew this was wrong, but the more taboo my thoughts got, the more my swollen shaft throbbed. I was getting lost in my mind, lost in the darkness. I was watching her. Pre-cum was seeping out of my slit. This was so naughty, and knowing that made it even hotter. My balls felt so tight, but they grew even tighter when it occurred to me that mum and I may both be masturbating at the same time! My head swelled. I knew that this could not last for much longer, not at this pace, not with these thoughts. I was steaming, sweat on my brow. My vision of mum was filthy now, she was performing for me, her fingers probing. Her centre soaked. Her hand soaked. Her body nubile. Pre-cum oozed out of me, lubing my shaft as I stroked. Every vein in my cock strained. Good God, I was approaching the end. My heart rate climbed, I feared it may burst out of my chest, my pulse raced. Up, down. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. The pressure building and building, my balls ached, every muscle in my body tightened, until, finally, release…
I felt like I rose up off my bed, I felt as though I had taken flight. I gasped. Spunk erupted from the tip of my bulging manhood. I could not see it, but there was lots, I felt it run down my shaft, over my hand, splash onto my chest and thighs; it was pumping out of me, an ungodly amount of thick goo. I tried as hard as I could to keep my moans as quiet as possible, but I have no idea if I did. I rubbed and rubbed, squeezing out every drop of cum I could, until, finally, my hand fell by my side. My wet and exhausted cock rested in a pool of cum on my stomach. I was finished. I was spent. It took a few moments for me to come back down to earth. When I finally did I contemplated cleaning myself up, but the slumber that had eluded me when I first got into bed soon found me.
I awoke the next morning, the sun streamed in through the gaps in my blinds. The previous night’s events came rushing to the forefront of my mind. What had I done? I looked down at myself, in the morning light, uncovered, dry cum everywhere, my sheets felt crusty, my skin felt crusty, what a mess. As I laid there, my thoughts turned over, ‘Why did I do that?’ I asked myself, ‘That was so bad.’ I kept telling myself how bad and how depraved last night was fully expecting feelings of guilt, disgust or shame to wash over me, but they didn’t; I should have felt appalled and ashamed of myself, but I didn’t. I did feel bad, but not guilty bad, it was the naughty kind of bad. I felt as though I’d been a bad boy, if you will. Add this feeling to the list of curious occurrences that I’d encounter this weekend.
I was in dire need of a shower. I peeled myself off my bed and made my way to the bathroom. I didn’t bother with my clothes, I knew that on what looked to be a beautiful day mum would be out walking. If she wasn’t at work on a Saturday morning she was off out exploring the Great British outdoors with her closest friends. The shower’s steaming hot jet was a welcome relief; it blasted away my early morning weariness and the dry semen that was caked to my skin. I washed my hair and scrubbed my body, God it felt good. I grabbed my cock and soaped it up, rolling back my foreskin to wash away the dry spunk. With the warm water and my handling of it, my penis began to stiffen slightly. I sighed softly as I rolled my balls in my hand. Wicked thoughts creeping into my mind. Mum related thoughts. I was severely tempted to play with myself there in the shower, but after the treatment I gave it in the night my dick felt sore and in need of a break. ‘At ease.’ I told myself.
I shut off the shower and reached for a towel off the wrack next to the shower; no towels. ‘Fuck’s sake!’ I thought, knowing that I’d have to dash to the spare room and grab a towel from the laundry basket. I hopped out of the shower and made a naked dash to the spare room, soaking the carpet along the way. It was always lovely and warm in the spare room, my buns felt toasted. I flung open the lid of the laundry basket: no towels. I shook my head. Mum’s room was the only other place they could have been. Back out into the hall I went.
I stopped in my tracks so suddenly I thought I’d hit a brick wall. She wasn’t meant to be home. She was meant to be out walking, but mum wasn’t out walking, she was stood at the opposite end of the hall in her bathrobe, looking right at me. ‘Oh, Jesus!’ My heart almost jumped out of my mouth, I was in shock. Mum looked stunned; her face was the face of a woman that wasn’t expecting to see her son naked and dripping wet. Her eyes were so wide. They were wide and staring directly at my slightly engorged and dripping wet cock. I’ll be honest I have absolutely no idea how long this moment lasted, it may have only been seconds, but it felt like an eternity. I scrambled to cover myself up/ There was a horribly long pause. We both just stood there, saying nothing. Mercifully, mum broke the awkward silence, “Oh, God, sorry, love” she said looking away, “All the towels are in my room.” She plunged into her room and was back in the hallway within seconds, a big green fluffy towel in hand. Quickly, I stepped towards her, both hands cupping my cock and balls; both were warm and throbbing. Mum stepped forward to meet me and handed me the towel. I snatched it out her hand and wrapped it around myself as quick as I could, “Thanks” was all I said as I bolted to my room.
Once I’d slammed the door shut, I let the towel fall to the floor and put my hands over my face in disbelief, ‘Fucking hell!’ Was on repeat in my head. I was flabbergasted and all I could do was focus in the facts: she had seen me naked. She had seen my cock. My mum had just seen my cock… And she had looked right at it. This was a fact, and it was her looking right at it where my mind lingered and in doing so stiffened me up, ‘What the hell is happening!?’ I asked myself, as I scooped my penis into my hand and gently tugged at it, ‘This shouldn’t be turning me on!’ But it was. And within a few minutes I’d shot a second load thinking about mum within twelve hours.
That evening, I laid in bed, deep in thought. The incident in the small hours of Friday and the incident that morning had thrown me somewhat. I was still anticipating feelings of shame and guilt, but they still did not arrive. What had happened was exciting to me; it absolutely should not be, but it was. My sex life was not one that you would say was thriving, I’d not had a girlfriend in over a year. I’d not had sex in even longer. But had it gotten so bad that I had to resort to such taboo fantasies? The two and a half erections I’d had in the last day suggested it had. What had been awoken in me? Did I want to have sex with her? No. That felt too far, a line I did not want to cross or even approach. I felt like I wanted other things, though. Things that were wrong. I wanted her to see me again, I wanted to see her, her tits, her pussy, but I didn’t want her to know. I wanted this to just be my dirty little secret. That made me even more excited. The deceit of it all. I smiled a wicked smile, and before I slept, a third load was spilled.
Sunday passed without incident and, as it often does, the working week passed quickly, also without incident. I confess that I was a touch disappointed that nothing further had occurred, but no opportunity had presented itself. I heard no late night moans, I had no shower near misses, nothing. I’d undergone quite the transformation in a week. That Friday I won the race for the sofa, condemning mum to another night in her room, and once again I watched TV until the wee hours. This time, however, I made sure I did not fall asleep. I sat patiently and waited for 3am. I wanted to see if I could catch an audio repeat of last Friday’s incident. 3am came and just as I did last Friday, I snuck up the stairs and had her door in sight, I crept as quietly as I did the previous Friday. I reached the door, pulled down my trackies and underwear, grabbed my cock and slowly leaned in, I held my breath and listened… Nothing. No moans. No heavy breaths. No nothing. I stood there with ear to the door and my cock in my hand for five minutes, hoping to hear anything, but my wait was in vain. I gave up the ghost, ‘She’s obviously asleep, idiot’. Frustrated, I released my cock, pulled my trackies up and headed for my room and bed.
Saturday morning I awoke with some stiffness, not just my in my back and legs, but in my cock too. I enjoyed morning wood; it always felt like a very strong erection, and I never wanted to waste one of those. With last night’s frustrations in mind, I kicked off my duvet and gripped my stiffness. I’d only pumped myself once or twice when a wicked thought entered my head. An opportunity had presented itself. It was Saturday morning and I knew that mum would be at work today. I had the house to myself. Surely I shouldn’t waste this morning wood in my room? I jumped up out of bed and made the quick naked jaunt to mum’s bedroom. Even walking around naked was turning me on. I stood naked and stiff inside her room, wondering what to do with myself. I looked around, hoping for inspiration. I came to focus on her bed. The sheets were white, I noticed. That wicked smile was on my face again.