My son and I are lovers.
Not that we make love - we fuck. Or rather my son Simon fucks me, his 43 year-old mom, and I can't get enough.
Never before had I been a physical object of desire - accepting any act a man demanded of me, responding willingly and anxiously. Yet, never before had I felt so sexy, so happy as when my son is inside me slamming away or when his hands are groping me in the back of an elevator.
I grew up believing the lies that my mother sold me - about marriage and love and that that being enough to make happiness. Not once did she disclose the heat of being horny as you grew older while your husband barely looked at you any longer. And when he did, it was for his selfish need to get off and not to give pleasure. Was my mother happy in her marriage, was love and marriage enough?
My husband is home so rarely now, my son having free reign to my body and I love my life like I never did before. The first orgasm I ever had with a man inside me was with my son. Never did the woman, that I had been, ever imagine the things that she enjoyed now - being spanked, tied up, buggered. Never did I imagine that I thought of little else but being fucked by my son, my child, when he was not at home and what he was, doing all I can to entice him to take me, use me. I feel beautiful, desired and like a woman when I am with my child.
Simon is 19 years-old and has been fucking his old mother since he was sixteen. But it started a year before that - when he shocked me when I discovered he was spying on me, stealing my soiled panties to jerk off into. I was naive in the ways of lust, in the force that our sexualities can control us. I feigned anger, at first, because that is how I envisioned my own parent to act, given similar circumstances. Though imagining my emotionally distant parent being the object of desire of my older rebellious brother seems ludicrous.
My son's desire to be with me in the beginning surprised me to my core - me, the middle-aged house-wife and mom. I can not even tell you the last time I caught someone looking at my breasts, or checking me out - you know what I mean? And though I told myself excuses, that my son was young, misguided - his interest never wavered and that destroyed most of my arguments. Even my fake anger faded away with shocking reality that I was facing. I even blamed his interest on myself, searching for something I may have done to inappropriately make my own child think of his mom as a sexual entity.
Then came the small, seemingly, innocent touches that he instigated. Knowing where they originated, I was shocked but did nothing to hinder my child. Small things like a hand casually holding my nylon covered knee in the car, to his accidentally rubbing up against my fleshy bottom. The truth was, my life up to this time did not prepare me for the advances from a boy.
I married and never denied my husband anything in our marriage bed - he rolled on top of me, entered, then grunted until he rolled off. This was how Simon was conceived. My husband did not romance me, he did not even feel the need to give me small intimate touches that his son would do years later. It was shocking as well as oddly thrilling to be receiving such attention now, so late in life. The fact that these touches are now coming from my own child seemed to enhance the delicious torrent of passion so obviously left dormant in my life to date.
Perhaps my inability to stop these small acts lead to my son risking all to go further - finding his mother innocent to these manoeuvres between man and woman, or son and mother. The hard penis pressed into my bottom as he came up to hold me, or how that hand on my knee in the car rose up higher beneath my skirt to the upper part of my fleshy thigh.
I reacted these times, unlike my comatose state before, I gasped or shivered when these things happened. The hand slipping up my nylon covered thigh extracting a small sigh and my knees to inadvertently spread. Inside, I knew I had to stop him yet a new voice was speaking up, which had started with whispers telling me I mattered, that I was attractive, loved. Yet I was emotionally and physically ignored for the whole of my life, this spark of desire aimed in my direction was a thermonuclear weapon that I was powerless to stop.
It was obvious that Simon was surprised that I did nothing to deny his advances, that I place no boundaries on these acts. Did he realize, even back then, how lonely and needful his old mom was? Things quickly accelerated from that point.
My son began to casually be naked in my presence, my eyes naturally following that perfect organ between his legs. Not long after that, he was masturbating within my vicinity - his door open wide, his moans haunting me for days, my sex reacting like it has never done before.
What was happening between us shocked me, horrified me. I spent long hours looking at myself in the mirror, wondering what my teenage son saw in his old mom - or was he just teasing her, humiliating me in some diabolical charade. I began to masturbate again, having stopped before I was out of my teens - having been horrified at the act after my father caught me, the punishment extreme. But now my sex was wet when I was with my son, when he was naked, and especially when I heard or 'accidentally' saw him masturbate in his room. And I thought of that hard almost constantly, almost craving it with a passion I had never experienced before.
The hands wandered further, his paws cupping my breasts or hands clawing at my fleshy ass. Why would Simon stop when his old mom moaned at his touch and pressed against him. I could not tell him to stop but neither could I tell him to advance - I was being exposed, for the first time in my life, to thoughts and feelings I had never experienced before - and I needed them like a flower needs sun, even when my mind screamed the obvious warnings.
I was at that precipice, at the edge of something new and exciting and wanted to jump into the amazing potential it offered, yet life's somber lessons held me back.
Simon came to my bed late one night and I watched him enter - guessing that he wanted to finally have sex with me. It was what I had fantasied about for months now - various scenarios of my son and I on our first time. Naked he slipped into my bed, pushed the duvet down and lifted the hem of my knee-length nightie. I returned his passionate kiss as his fingers slipped between my legs to find me hot and very wet. The boy stroked my clitoris as if he had been trained by the best and I gasped and shivered violently as my orgasm hit.
It was the first orgasm between us, it had come so easily and had left be shocked and thrilled - my body and mind would open to what my son offered. I do not think my husband had ever given me an orgasm in the total of our marriage.
Then my son lay waiting next to me until I recovered before he placed my hand on his throbbing penis. He rolled onto his back and I followed, my lips finding his and loving it even as my hand stroked. I had stroked a couple of boys when I was a teenager and dating - don't recall ever doing it with my husband though. It was strangely thrilling to feel that pulsating muscle in my hand, as my son's hips thrust up and down even as his tongue attacked my own within my mouth.
He ejaculated upon my hand and on his stomach. I watched it with something like awe - never having witnessed the sight before. Odd admitting that to myself, as if I were the inexperienced teen and my son the middle-aged accomplish.
My son sighed after it was all done, reached for a tissue to clean his stomach before rolling out of my bed and out of my room - never saying a single word while we had been together. I lay face down, the back of my soiled hand a breath away from my eyes as I starred at it.
The next intimate act between us may seem oddly childish compared to what we had already done but strangely it affected me deeply. It could have been the public nature of the act - public in the sense that it was not in my bedroom where it happened. In fact it was in the kitchen again, where I usually spent half my day as a housewife. My son simply came up behind me and hissed at me not to move, then he knelt down behind me and lifted my dress and dragged my pantyhose and white cotton pantie down my legs and helped me to step out of the garment. He then lowered my skirt, took my underwear from the room to never be seen again.
No more words, nothing. But around the house I never wore anything beneath my skirt ever again. Besides the submission to my sons advances, this willing act on my part revealed the previously unknown woman that I truly was.
Things strangely slowed down after that - at least around the house. Driving him to school was a rushed wildly exciting time - afraid someone may see into the car while also thrilled at the alien feelings I was enduring. My son could not stop from slipping his hand up my skirt, beneath my panties, inside my vagina. More than once he masturbated me in our parked car until his old mom orgasmed shamelessly. If he wanted me to masturbate him, he would place my hand over his crotch - I never once denied him. He seemed to have the sense to ensure, as risky as it may be doing it within our car, there was never a chance of being caught.