Incest stories, Mother’s Intuition, A lesson learned, I can’t take my eyes off of him. More and more I find myself stealing glances at him, sometimes hiding behind curtains or while at the pool, peering over the top of a book I pretend to read. He’s just so gorgeous. Six-foot one, 210lbs. A swimmers build with the broad muscular shoulders and well-defined, powerful triceps. Tapering down to a slim waist and cobbled abdomen.
Doing his swim training he is shirtless, and every muscle and tendon ripples with his slightest exertion. Those long, thick legs are tanned and toned. The quads and calfs flex with each stride. He wears only the briefest of Speedos with no suggestion of modesty, his package obvious even when he’s alone and working-out. On the pool deck, the sun catches beads of water on his golden body and gives an appearance of an aura. He is the prototypical tall dark and handsome.
I’m always tempted to step up with a cool pitcher of lemonade, (maybe it should be beer,) or warm towels or sunscreen. Anything to draw nearer to him and let him see that I’m interested. Is it so wrong to find an eighteen year old to be so sexy, even if I’m almost twice his age- and his mother!?
I had him young. I was only sixteen when I got pregnant at my first drinking party. There was too much alcohol and too many boys to even pinpoint the father, and nobody stepped-up to volunteer. My foster parents gave up on me and from that day on it was just him and me. Our bond was always deeper than just mother/son. Atleast to me. He was my world and I was his protector. Now I find my body reacting to his touch or smile in an unseemly, erotic manner.
I daydream when he’s sitting across from me. My hand lingers when we exchange any item. I listen at his bedroom door, and leave mine ajar when dressing. I’m slipping into a strange, slightly perverted, loss of self-control. I truly believe that I want to have sex with him and more than that, I want him to be the aggressor.
I feel like if he were to make a move on me or better yet, to force himself on me; I could more easily mollify the incest taboo and that worst possible disregard of the maternal bond. I can let myself “give-in” if it seems like he is “taking” me.
For months now, I masturbate day and night, sometimes when we are separated by only one thin wall. I imagine him forcing himself on me, or tying me down, or sometimes, blackmailing me to pleasure him in all my slutty, “motherly” ways. I am tormented by inner demons. I will always be his Mom. But I want him to see me as a sexual obsession, as he is for me.
I wear my pitch-black hair long and full like the women whose posters adorn his wall. My 34Cs are natural and still well-rounded for my age and my skimpy outfits are meant for his eyes. When at the pool with him, I wear bikinis and sheer cover-ups, and I have joined him in weight training and Isometrics. This keeps me close to him while we both sweat in short, tight outfits and serves as additional inspiration to keep my own body in good shape. I pedal about fifty miles a day on a stationary bike and can knock-out 100 sit-ups in two minutes. I also bench press and leg press to tighten things from top to bottom. And I usually wear heels, to give my butt that certain jiggle that all men notice.
My son A.J. has inherited his mother’s dark hair and cobalt eyes. His lean frame has about 4% body fat. Those strong shoulders roll like a big cat’s. And his deep chest is solid and thick when I playfully thump my hand against him. And at times when I pretend to shiver or feel cold, his sinewy arms wrap me like a strong, sexy blanket. I want him and I need him.
One day I was watching and waiting at the kitchen door when he climbed out of the pool. I scampered outside and sat down on the chaise just as he did and began to towel him off. I briskly rubbed his crew-cut hair and gently dried and caressed his back and arms, taking extra time to allow my big tits to brush against him. Then I wrap my arms around his warm, tight body, all the while whispering how strong and attractive he is. I love how the shadows play on his muscular back and the thin stream of water runs down the small of his back. I’m trying to keep a mother’s tone but dropping sexual innuendos that anyone would notice.
He doesn’t respond in any overt way; but he leans back against my chest flattening my perky nipples and playfully squeezes and rubs my thighs while his breathing grows deeper and quicker. Does he feel it too? Does he want it?
I feel my insides start to shake and my pussy getting warm and tingly. My fingers trembled on his skin and my heart rate raced. I couldn’t do it. I had to run before I completely embarrassed and humiliated myself. With just a fast word about leaving boiling water on the stove, I dashed into the house and ducked into an icy cold shower. I had to come to grips with this dilemma.
With my head under the spray, my thinking cleared but the vision remained. I know it’s incest. I know it’s the taboo that all mothers fear. And I know all about Oedipus. But how do you stop that warm, misty feeling that starts so deep inside and threatens to overwhelm your senses? I turned on the hot water and plugged the drain. Soon I was soaking in the warm tub, my legs spread and one hand working feverishly on my clitoris while the other rubbed and tugged at my nipples. “A.J. if you only knew how close I came to sucking your cock and begging you to fuck me.”
My orgasms were so thunderous I was afraid he would hear me moaning or feel the walls shaking. I was in there for well over an hour and when I passed him in the hall, it must have been obvious that I did not just have a relaxing bath. Thank goodness, he said he was going out. I hopped into my bed and recreated the entire scenario. I can’t stop toying with my clit or quit imagining myself a slave to his desires. I want him to take me and I’m beginning to think I can no longer fight this sensation. “How slutty can I possibly be?” If given the opportunity I believe I may do something crazy. Could I really give in to these deviant dreams?
He came home from a practice meet once walking on crutches with an athletic bandage taped from his ankle to his thigh. A trainer termed it a severe muscle-pull and suggested bed-rest with heat and massage. My instincts kicked-in. I prepared soup and hot tea so he could take his pain killers and muscle relaxers. Then I unwrapped the rubberized bandage and applied a warming balm and gently kneaded his sore muscles. He moaned dreamily while his body loosened and his eyes drifted shut. He fell asleep with me rubbing his steely thighs and feeling the warmth of this potent, young force. A tempest was brewing from down deep.
I brushed his short spikey hair with my fingers and trailed my painted nails down his clean shaven chest, pausing to slowly finger the solid set of abdominals leading towards his grey, flannel gym shorts. The loose fitting trunks gave me a clandestine view of his limp cock laying languidly on his upper leg and peeking out from the bottom of his shorts. It was like an unblinking eye seeing right through me.
I was surprised to see that he had shaved his pubes and I noticed that his underarms were also bare. It was off season, I guess that is why he had any hair at all on his head and legs. I was drawn again to his penis. Appearing like a coiled snake in it’s den. My pulse climbed and a fine sweat broke out all over me, cold droplets oozing down my neck, and trickling into my cleavage. I wanted him to rest but I was so tempted to reach into the leg of his shorts and just touch it once. My nerves were on edge.
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