Falling in Love with Mom, sex stories, How do you fall in love with your own Mother? Speaking for myself, it didn’t take much of an effort. Ever since I can remember it has always been Mom and me. I didn’t know my father and didn’t have the slightest interest in finding out about him. Sure we had grandma, but once grandpa bought the farm, she moved to a retirement home in sunny Florida and we only saw her once or twice a year.
I never asked my Mother about my father. I knew she had been hurt by him and I didn’t want her to relive the memories. The story I gleaned from grandma was that he had convinced Mom that he loved her and he had promised marriage. Then when he found out Mom was pregnant with me, he disappeared.
Rat Bastard.
Mom worked for a mid-sized national accounting firm. I was proud of her – finishing college while changing my diapers was no mean feat. She was always there for me, be it the lame plays I was in when I was a kid, or coming to watch my baseball games. The firm she worked for had a competitive environment, and I was sure she could have risen to the top had she not dedicated so much of her time to me. Coming home on time instead of working late, taking her vacation time so we could go around the country, spending the weekends with me instead of going to the office, all probably caused her to lose out on a few promotions. I did love her to bits for sacrificing so much for me.
I used to be waiting for her when she came home from work. By that time I had done my homework. The spare time I had, I used to help around the house. By that I mean doing the laundry, mowing the lawn or keeping everything neat and tidy. I loved her unconditionally and I really wanted to show how much I appreciated her. I was the model son – I don’t think I had ever given her a reason to raise her voice at me.
Mom would come home in the evening and the first thing she would do was give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I would return the hug, loving the feel of her soft, warm body against mine. With that done, she would walk upstairs to her bedroom, asking me about my day and telling me about hers, and I would follow her like a lovesick puppy. And then she would strip for me.
Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m sure when it first started it was innocent and harmless. I used to be in her bedroom, and she had to change out of the clothes she wore to work. And since we were already in the middle of a conversation it didn’t make sense for her to ask me to leave.
She had a large mirror on one of the walls, with the dresser next to it. She would make sure to always turn away from me as she undressed. Now I was a red-blooded male, and it didn’t take me long to realize I was getting the show of my life in the mirror. I’m sure she knew I was watching her, but she never did say anything, she just kept our conversation going. I also tried to act as normal as I could while watching my gorgeous Mother take off her clothes.
First she would unbutton her blouse. Her breasts, hidden by her bra, would be revealed for my hungry eyes. They were big and firm. On her small frame they looked absolutely spectacular. I used to cherish the days she would wear a slightly smaller bra, which caused her tits to almost spill out, creating a deep ‘V’ of cleavage.
Then she would unzip her skirt. I never quite knew where to look at that moment. She would swing and wiggle her hips to try and get the skirt to drop her down. This caused her delightfully saucy butt and her tits to jiggle simultaneously, so I was always trying my best to soak in both of them.
Once down to her underwear, she would sit in front of the dresser and brush her hair. Occasionally, she would apply some cream to her legs and arms. All the while she would keep up our conversation. I used this time to study her. Her flawless complexion. Her lustrous brown hair. The pretty face with her cute little button nose. Her generous breasts which I yearned to touch and her cleavage where I wished to bury my face.
And while she would be brushing her hair, Mom would always be looking in the mirror, right back at me. Inevitably, once I was done checking her out, I would move my eyes up and our eyes would meet. I would blush a deep crimson at having been caught, but I never would break eye contact with her. I thought she was gorgeous, and while I was embarrassed, I wasn’t ashamed at being caught looking at her; I did not want to apologize. And she never did say anything. She would smile, and I would find myself smiling too.
She would proceed to her closet, where she would take out one of her gowns. Putting it one, she would turn away from me, and once hidden from my prying eyes, she would reach behind her back and unhook her bra, discarding it on the bed. Then, she would pull the gown close and turn towards me with a bright smile. Ruffling my hair, she would tell me that she was going to get started on dinner and to meet her downstairs in fifteen.
I would use this time to scurry to my room and masturbate.
When I joined her downstairs for dinner, we would continue talking. Me about school or my teachers. She about her work or her friends. The new gaming console I wanted to buy. The new book she wants to read.
After dinner, I would help her clear away the dishes. She would thank me and we would walk upstairs. Then once we reached the top of the stairs, she would draw me into a warm hug and gently kiss me goodnight on the cheek. As she whispered in my ear how much she loved me, I would revel in the comforting warmth and softness of her breasts, separated from me by only her thin gown. I would gaze at her longingly and lovingly, and then she’d go into her bedroom and I would retreat into mine, proceeding to furiously masturbate again to my thoughts and fantasies of Mom. I never felt any guilt; I never felt like I was doing anything wrong in thinking of my Mother in such a way. Yes, I did know that most sons don’t think of their mothers like this, but I loved her, and I knew she loved me. Maybe not in the way I did, but it was something.
And to quote an oft repeated phrase, “how can love be wrong?”
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Some things change as time passes. I grew taller and my body filled out and got some definition. I didn’t play any sport, but jogging in the morning and an occasional trip to the gym kept me in pretty good shape. Once finished with school, I enrolled for part-time classes at the local college and started working part-time at a small financial advisory firm. The hours were easy but the work was challenging, yet I didn’t find it too tough. I guess I got the gift of numbers from Mom.
In my eyes, the passing years had made Mom even more beautiful than ever. She had let her dark brown hair grow a bit longer, so it now fell just below her shoulder instead of just above. She was still the same 5’2″ – about a foot shorter than me – but had gained a few pounds. Nothing too extreme, and even though she would often whine and complain to me that she needed to lose some weight, I thought those extra pounds made her look even more desirable and sexy. They seemed to have gone to her chest, and I swear her breasts looked even bigger than they had been.
(For the record, I did not know what her cup size was. Even though I was a huge pervert by pretty much any standards – fantasizing about and masturbating to my Mother – I respected her privacy too much to go around snooping in her underwear drawer.)
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