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Something to boost the submissions in the Nude Day contest. A quick incest piece — mother and son. He notices she’s female and struggles to hold it in check. Sean’s mother’s penchant for nudity doesn’t help his situation. Nor does her workout regime, with gym and yoga giving her a body he can’t take his eyes off.
Anyway, here it is. I hope you enjoy it. Feedback is good.
Thank you for reading.
GA — Puerto Princesa, the Philippines — 19th of June 2015.
When she comes into the kitchen, I try to keep my eyes on her face, which is difficult because she’s gorgeous. Of course it’s just physical nuts and bolts, but with a divine hand doing the crafting. Just seeing her move pulls at me on a visceral level. Some women are just built in a way to make a man groan. But my mother is better than most.
I sip my water and try to hold it together. Which is getting more and more difficult of late.
“You should put on some clothes,” I tell her.
Her response is to look at me and roll her eyes. “Why?” she asks, knowing exactly what I’m objecting to. “I’ve always gone round the house nude.”
Desire to simply reach out and touch her puts an edge to my tone: “Maybe because it’s inappropriate? I’m twenty-two now, Mum. Do you think I should really be seeing you naked?”
My mother doesn’t seem to care. All she does is laugh and turn to the fridge.
When she leans forward and reaches in — all taut and lush — the sight of her large breasts in profile drags at my eyes. I look at her body and feel the zing in my cock when she pulls out a carton of apple juice, closes the fridge door, and then walks away.
The roll of her hips is a taunt. My mother’s feminine sway and the sight of her buttocks flexing and swaying makes me want to howl like a hound.
“It doesn’t bother me!” my mother calls back.
No, but she might think differently if she saw the hungry look on my face.
I leave the empty glass on the counter and head up the stairs. I’m on a mission, in desperate need of release. My mother is somewhere downstairs doing whatever it is she’s doing as, knowing it’s wrong and feeling the guilt curdle in the pit of my stomach, I shove my jeans to my knees and crank hard at my dick.
Using the image of my other’s backside I get there quickly. I tug at my dick and picture those globes, imagining I’m squeezing the pliant flesh with my fingers.
It was true, what she’d said, she’s always done it. My mother has always paraded around in the buff. It’s natural, she says. The way we’re meant to be.
And it never used to bother me.
But, just lately, seeing her that way has had an effect.
I’m mad for my mum’s smoking hot body.
Her long, soft, dirty-blonde hair doesn’t help at all, either. Nor do her smile, her big blue eyes or the dimples in her cheeks when she grins. And it isn’t much better when she’s dressed. My mother is proud of her figure and wears clothes which show of her assets. She’s at the gym five times a week after work, with yoga at home six mornings out of seven. The result being she’s lean and toned and a pleasure to watch moving. My mother might be forty-five, but passes for thirty.
Inside my head, I fuck into my mother. In this fantasy, I’m a watcher, a voyeur off to one side who soaks up the sight of us rutting. I thrust in from behind while my mother leans forward, tilted at the waist, hips angled so her pussy is perfectly presented. In this one I have her in shoes, a pair of hooker platforms in startling pink, with a lethal heel that add inches to her height. She’s exquisite, one lean thigh tensed while she luses straight arms against to support herself hands, braced against the headboard. One knee is on the mattress, one foot on the floor while she looks back at me over her shoulder. My mother is grinning and loving what I’m doing, breasts swinging until she lifts one hand to maul at her flesh.
I gaze where the slender sweep of her back melts into her waist, the feminine thrust of her buttocks and hips.
Groaning — I can’t stop myself from making the sound — jizm pours out of me while, in my mind’s eye, I see my mother’s abdomen tense, her mouth falling open, eyes glazing as her own orgasm hits her.
I’m tugging my dick, catching the outflow of cum in a tee-shirt I’ve got wrapped round my shaft and the head of my cock. It isn’t ideal, masturbating this way, but the urgency was on me and I didn’t have the patience to undress for a more leisurely wank.
The stuff pumps into the shirt while I stifle my groans. It’s so sweet, such a pleasure, the delight made so much better because the fantasy is so wrong. The illicit nature of it gets me there. My mother, my sweet darling mum, with her body so lithe and supple, her cunt so wet as it clenches around my girth.
But, as usual, as soon as I’m spent the guilt rushes in. My cock oozes jizm and I’m immediately disgusted with myself. I’m a pig and a pervert and ashamed to be standing in my bedroom tuzla escort with my jeans at my shins, the evidence of my perversion a sticky mess corrupting the tee-shirt.
Appalled, I bundle it up and cast it aside, then haul up my jeans to shove the dribbling length out of sight. Wracked by remorse I vow never to do it again, determined this time. It has to stop. I can’t let myself keep on doing it.
But, even as I promise myself there’ll be no more, a part of my mind knows that I’m lying. I might last a day, or perhaps stretch it to two, but I’ll be thinking about her and cranking my shaft soon enough.
I can’t help it. I’m obsessed. I spend most of my time in a fugue while dreaming about fucking into my own mother’s pussy.
I’m jealous. That’s what it is. I came home for the long summer vac and discovered my mother had a boyfriend.
My father cheated on her … once.
That she knew about anyway.
After that, he was gone. She hoisted the old man away and set about reinventing herself. That’s when the yoga and gym started up. Three years ago, when I left home for uni, my mother was well down the road to a transformation Carol Vorderman would have envied.
She must have had boyfriends. There had to have been lovers. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking since she got rid of dad. Maybe I didn’t care at the time? Perhaps I was too busy getting on with my own stuff to spare a thought for my mum. I don’t recall thinking about her physical needs at all. I was her son, why would I?
In any event, she kept them away from me and I never knew.
But the knowing about this one is certainly getting to me.
I can’t stand the idea of his hands on her body.
It’s unpleasant, but I’m thinking about them when my mother asks, “Are you all right, Sean?”
I was in the living room, sulking, when she walked in unnoticed.
At the sound of her voice, I look up. For once she’s wearing clothes — ready for a night out with him. It galls me to imagine her stripping down for the man.
I think she looks stunning with her hair all wavy and loose. She’s subtly made up, lips shimmering with pink lip-gloss, eyes ringed with mascara. My mother’s in spiked heels, not the bordello whore’s platforms I had her wear in my fantasy, but a pair of chic Louboutins that put a delicate curve to her calves and make me wish she wasn’t wearing the tight pencil skirt after all. She’s elegant and sexy, stylish and gorgeous. On top, as is her style, she’s got her large bust squeezed into a blouse that can barely take the strain.
I look at her and shrug, eyes lingering — just for a moment — on the deep crease between my mother’s breasts, the little silver pendant I bought her last Christmas nestled in the valley.
The image comes to me. I imagine myself with my face pressed into her cleavage, the picture dissipating when I look at her eyes.
“Yeah,” I reply, sullen.
She pouts with a cocksucker’s moue that twitches my dick; then her lips all pink and puckered cause the dirty slide of jealousy, dripping like liquid shit down a drain, when I imagine those lips round his dick.
“Well, you don’t look all right,” says my mother near the door.
I’m sat in one of the armchairs while she’s standing. We’re both waiting for her mobile to buzz.
“I am,” I reply, snappy because I’m pissed off and petulant. I don’t like being this way but can’t shake the feeling.
“You sure?” she asks, head canting to one side.
The hot sting of tears surprises me. I decide I’ve got to get out of the room before I embarrass myself and give her cause for concern. What I don’t want are her well-intentioned yet probing questions. I nod and rise to my feet while croaking, “Yeah, sure.”
She follows me, heels pecking the kitchen floor tiles.
I’m at the fridge as she approaches. Keeping my back towards her, I reach in for a beer.
Her hand comes to rest on my shoulder.
“You don’t like him, do you?” she says as I turn.
I pop the tab, chagrined at being so obvious, thankful the tears haven’t spilled.
I shrug and take a sip and then say, “It’s none of my business.”
She looks at me for a while. I can’t tell what’s going on behind those eyes, so, nonplussed and awkward at being so physically close to my mother — I entertain a wild notion about leaning in to kiss her mouth — I swig from the can and move away to one side.
She doesn’t let up as I park my backside against the heavy oak table in the middle of the room. “Well, it sort of is, though, isn’t it, Sean? If things get serious.”
She must have seen the blood drain from my face, because my mother hastily goes on to add, “Not that it’s anywhere close to serious, I just mean it as a ‘what-if?’
“There’s no need to think anything different. I’m just saying … That’s all.” Then she sighs and mutters a heartfelt, “Shit,” when her mobile sounds, the word coming out sharp with frustration.
“Later,” she says, pushing the phone under her hair. tuzla escort bayan My mother turns away from me while saying, “We’ll talk.
“Hello?” she continues, murmuring into her mobile. “Yes, I’m ready. I’m coming. See you in a sec.”
I sip beer without tasting it when the door slams closed, guts boiling with animosity towards the man in her company.
Tan lines started me off.
My mother took a holiday, late last year, to the Canaries, just before Christmas. I was at home when she returned, when she reverted to her habitual nudity.
Soon after, I noticed the pale outline of what must have been the briefest, most insignificant bikini bottoms ever made. She’d obviously been topless, because her boobs were all tanned — which didn’t faze me at the time. But the sheer eroticism of seeing those pale lines high on her hips gripped me in a way which had me gazing and hard.
The realisation hit me one morning like a physical blow. I stared at the tiny triangle at the apex of the cleft at the top of her buttocks, my mother’s femininity confronting me while the toast turned to glue in my mouth.
Up until then, my mother’s nudity hadn’t been much of an issue, but the tan lines woke my libido. And the beast came up snarling.
One beer goes down easy, so I go for another. I drink and try to push my mother, her nakedness, and thoughts of what she does with her lover out of my head.
I try watching Saturday evening TV, which doesn’t work so I try a reading a book.
Forty minutes after my mother left the house I’m up in my room with porn on the laptop.
I stroke my cock and think about taking my time. I’m going to tease myself with some lesbian stuff first. Watching hot women kiss is one of my faves at the moment — and porn lesbians take some beating when it comes to kissing and tongues.
Nina Hartley is seducing a much younger woman when I hear the front door slam shut.
The sound of it makes me go cold and there’s ice in my veins as I lie on the bed, pre-cum sliding out of my cock.
There’s no real danger my mother will barge in on me, but I still get a fright, and after an appalled pause I snap the laptop shut and roll off the bed.
Then I wipe off my dick and reach for my clothes to investigate my mother’s untimely return.
Something’s not right, and two minutes later I find her in the kitchen with a bottle of red wine on the table, a long-stemmed glass almost full standing next to it.
One look at her face is all I need. She’s standing, arms folded, vibrating with whatever emotion she’s feeling.
My mother’s tortured visage swivels towards me when I walk in. She says, “You don’t have any cigarettes, do you?”
I raise my hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Since when do I smoke?” I reply.
My mother’s tongue clicks off her palette. She rolls her eyes with apparent frustration. “I don’t know,” she sighs in response. “You might have taken it up at uni.”
I watch her lean in to pick up the glass. She glugs half the contents and then tops it off it off.
“What’s up?” I ask, concerned, the fact she asked for a smoke a clue of just how upset she is. My mother took up the habit during the crisis with dad, but gave it up when her fitness jag started.
The epithet confirms her anger when my mother spits her reply: “That fucking wanker, that’s what.”
I’m at a loss for what to say next. I don’t like emotional scenes; I feel uncomfortable and embarrassed and usually avoid any awkwardness, opting for a sweep-it-under-the-carpet attitude. But she’s my mother, and there’s nobody else to help.
“Uhm…” I begin, going to the fridge for a beer. Hoping she’ll say no, I tentatively ask, “Want to talk?”
“It’s over,” she says, face stricken, her tone tugging at me. My mother looks at me and blurts a brittle little laugh. “The wanker’s been two-timing me,” she adds, shaking her head like she can’t believe his cheek. “He knows how much I hate lying and cheating.” Her arms wave and wine spills when she gesticulates wildly. “The one fucking thing … And he does it!”
I follow my mother out of the kitchen. She’s grabbed the bottle and stalked away, the F-bomb a real cause for concern. I know there’s no going back for her now. If he’s done the dirty on my mother, he’s history.
Just ask my dad.
I know I should feel bad for her, and I do, but there’s also a chuckle of delight at the back of my mind. Inside my head a sing-song voice celebrates: It’s over; he cheated; she dumped him.
When I get to the living room she’s already shrugging off her blouse. My mother is muttering away, threats coming through teeth clenched with her rage.
My cock thickens despite my concern when I see my mother’s wobbling breasts, her nipples and areolae exposed, the weighty orbs cantilevered over a quarter-cup bra.
It’s the same effect as the tan lines. I’m hard and fantasising as she unzips the skirt and gives a little shimmy to get it down past her hips.
It’s devastating escort tuzla seeing her like that. She’s down to her underwear but still in the shoes. I look at her and feel a visceral pull, gulping down on the desire to go maul at her tits. It’s all I can do to stop myself hauling my hard-on out into view as lust surges inside me.
“Mum,” I gurgle. “Wuh-what are you doing?”
Wild-eyed and rabid with rage she shrieks, “I hate wearing clothes!
“I’m sorry,” she adds with a gasp. “I didn’t mean to yell at you like that.”
“Duh-do you have to strip in front of me?” I ask, stammering because the view is so sweet and I want her to stop before I do something stupidly reckless.
But, also, I don’t want her to stop. I want to stare at her nudity and crank at my cock ’til it spits.
I’d timed my outburst perfectly — or not, depending on your point of view. My mother ceases her vehement undressing to regard me square on, fists on her hips.
She’s still wearing the bra and the knickers and shoes, her eyes flashing fire. “It’s hardly a striptease,” my mother says.
“It is to me,” I groan in reply as my eyes flick to her underwear packed tight with her pussy.
Her eyebrows go up to her hairline. “What do you mean?” she asks, frowning in puzzlement.
It all gets too much and I slump into a chair. “Jesus, Mum!” I explode, waving the can in the air. “It’s difficult enough for me seeing you nude all the time.
“But look at you now,” I add with a jut of my chin. “Don’t you have any idea at all what you’re doing to me? You’re driving me mental.”
I blow out a sigh, cheeks like balloons. “Your body, Mum…
“Your boobs and your arse and your legs…
“Please,” I gasp. “Can’t you take off those shoes?”
She blinks and looks at her feet. “My shoes?”
It’s obvious she doesn’t have a clue so I groan and swig beer, a dribble of it running down my chin.
“They’re so sexy,” I tell her after wiping a hand over my chin. “I mean, just look at yourself. I don’t know anyone else whose mother thinks it’s acceptable to parade around with her knockers hanging out.”
“But I’ve always gone naked…”
I’m back on my feet and dumping the can on the coffee table before I start waving my arms.
“And it never used to bother me,” I shoot back, beginning to get strident.
“But now it does?” she replies, blinking as it starts to sink in.
I nod, head bobbing quickly. “Yes. Now, it does.”
I can see from her face she’s genuinely surprised. “But I’m your mother,” she says.
“And you’re also the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen in the flesh. You’re so fucking beautiful, Mum.”
And that seemed to do it. I couldn’t have made it any plainer.
My mother gawps back at me, her mouth hanging open. There’s a few seconds silence until I see her eyes flick to the front of my jeans.
A burst of air comes from her. She gasps, “Oh my God!”
And that’s when I realise she’s clocked the hard-on outlined against my jeans. It’s so prominent, there was no way she could miss it.
I’m not small down there anyway, but there was no way my mother could fail to see the effect she had on her son, especially since Nina Hartley’s backside and my mother’s shoes had conspired to leave pre-cum seeping from the eye of my cock. I follow the line of her stare and groan when confronted with a stain like a map of Africa infusing the faded denim.
“Oh Jesus, Oh God,” my mother blasphemes. “What are you thinking?” she gasps, eyes going wide.
“I can’t help it,” I whine, aggrieved at her accusatory tone. “You’re the one always parading about in the nude!”
She boggles for a few moments before groaning a denial. My mother throws another appalled look at my face and says, “Oh dear God no. Sean,” she gasps, fingers at her mouth.
Then she leaves me staring after her as she flees the room.
I bang into her pussy later that night. I’ve got her on her bed. My mother’s on her back, knees somewhere near her ears in a contortionist’s pose thanks to her yoga. Her pussy is tilted towards me while she stares up at my face, her eyes like full moons with the shock of it.
“I can’t believe I’m fucking my son,” she gurgles. My mother offers me a grin and crinkles her nose. “But it’s lovely,” she coos.
Of course the scene is all in my head. I’m alone in my bedroom, tugging my dick while using the mindreel fantasy of my mother in her shoes.
I see her again as she was: bare breasts upthrust by the quarter cup bra, the length of her legs exaggerated because of the heels. Her thighs and calves are tense, and her pussy — oh, God, her vulva all plump and enticing and packed into her knickers.
I’m desperate to come and grunting with need, fucking my cock into my fist.
“Keep doing it,” the fantasy moans while urgently thrusting her hips. “God, don’t stop doing it, baby; you’ll make mummy come if you fuck her like that.”
The look on her face does it. My mother gazes up into my eyes, blowing me a kiss before beaming a huge smile, the expression melting to shock when she realises I’m coming.
“Kiss me,” she groans, head lolling back as her own climax claims her and the spasms take hold.
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