My Mother Susan

by BillyG

Caution: This Mother/Son Incest Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Fiction, Incest, Mother, Son, Oral Sex, Petting, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Slow, .

Desc: Mother/Son Incest Story: Lusting after his own mother, can a young man manage to do more than just be a son?

I remember the day exquisitely well. The days - no the months and years before it - are wrapped in some soft-focus, cotton-candy memory, but that day snaps into sharp focus with a clarity that is the result of moments of great impact long remembered. For all those years, my mother was my Mom. Then one day she became a woman. More importantly, she suddenly became a sexy woman. An extremely desirable woman.

I didn't - that day at any rate - suddenly become a profligate. It was to take a certain determinism and some considerable time before I might aspire to that description. No, the severest criticism one could bring to bear back then might be that I was a horny kid, one who appeared to be a touch more aware than his peers and maybe too curious for his own good.

I was home alone with my mother and my father was away. That was the case a good bit of the time it seemed. I had a father, but we didn't know each other very well. On some level, I'd come to accept his absence, for that's the way it was. I suspect my mother, who didn't complain, was experiencing less acceptance.

I'd been coerced into wearing a sport jacket that day - in place of my usual, more casual attire - and attending some ho-hum, boring cocktail party at the university president's home. I don't recall the strong-arm tactics that brought me to bay, but I do recall the suffering. It seemed like endless hours of mindless chatter where everyone but me got to have champaign or white wine. Oh, it wasn't forbidden, but my mother had made it clear that she was going to have "some wine" and I was the designated driver. We both knew that champaign had more effect on my mother than it appeared at first glance. If she didn't try to walk, or drive, she did quite well, at least at holding a conversation. However, those who knew her well were aware of a characteristic scattered thought process, a type of clang association which, when coupled with an alcoholic gaiety, turned her into a different woman. Almost daring and perhaps borderline loose.

Anyway, we'd returned home in the late afternoon from that well- supplied party and we'd both fallen into facing couches in our large living room, each of us with a welcome sigh as we put our feet up. That's when it happened. I don't recall that anything had occurred to set me up for this; it just came out of nowhere. Blind sided as it were. Out of nowhere, this sexy woman appeared!

The late afternoon sun shone toward my mother while I sat opposite her in deeper shadow. She'd drawn up her knees to push her pumps off and suddenly I was looking directly up her dress at a well-lit and unobstructed view of my mother's thighs all the way to her undergarments. It was no flash, for she'd placed both stockinged feet on the coffee table, knees still up and fallen back to the cushions, head up and eyes closed with her skirt around her mid thighs in the front and completely dropped away in the rear.

"Oh, that feels so good." she exclaimed, wriggling her stocking- clad toes. "Christ, I wish I could meet someone interesting at those parties, someone with some life in them!"

It was the type of comment that needed no reply. I suspect that I couldn't have replied coherently in any case, for my attention was riveted on the view under her dress.

Even though I'd lived with this woman all my life, I suppose I had had no interest and no awareness of her as a *woman* and even less for her clothes. After all, she was my mother for crying out loud. So, it was with some surprise that I realized for the very first time that she wore stockings and garters and not what I thought all women wore, pantyhose. I was fascinated with the stretch of her hose by the garters running down each thigh. But her panties held even greater fascination for me.

I don't think that I'd given it any previous thought, but had I been grilled on what type of underwear my mother wore, I might have guessed something white, conservative, and certainly thick. Clearly not what she had on. Illuminated by the long rays of the afternoon sun, the pale yellow of her panties, pooched out by a thick cushion of pubic hair faintly seen beneath, were not what I would have expected. As I say, I hadn't really expected anything, but what I saw so well that afternoon was to be imprinted on my mind with an indelible permanence.

"Damn, my feet are tired," she complained to the heavens. And then, stating the obvious, "Professor Twist is so incredibly boring," followed by a mental right turn, "I need some excitement in my life."

Excitement? I glanced up at her face, but she looked unchanged, head back and eyes still closed, the picture of fatigue, or was it boredom? Looking again at her long legs encased in shear nylons leading up to that pantied juncture in her crotch, I suddenly had a near-overwhelming desire to see more, to get closer. Some desires, short of compulsions, can be modulated if for no other reason than a fear of disclosure. The strength of this desire was not to be moderated by caution or restraint. I *had* to see more.

Understand, I wasn't a complete nincompoop, but as a seventeen year old, I didn't know much. Most of my sexual adventures came as the result of me just being there and things happening. I suppose I was more of an opportunist than a mover and shaker, at least in sexual things. Later, that was to change. Anyway, I knew I wanted to get closer and hadn't the faintest notion how I might accomplish this... and keep my head on my shoulders.

I had an idea! Hardly original and certainly not a bit creative, but it was what came to mind at that moment and without turning it over to examine its merits, I blurted out, "Want me to rub your feet? I know it's not very exciting, but you used to love it."

Now this was not entirely without precedent, for I'd once taken a low-grade massage course that had started with the feet and then the hands. Most of the people in there were taking the course hoping to learn about erotic massage. That never happened and it was not until eight or so weeks later that we even got to the back! At any rate, I'd massaged my mom's hands and her forearms and feet and calves in the past. At that time I was doing it for the practice and hardly noted that it was my mother's limbs on which I was working. Now, months later, she just sank deeper into the couch and wiggled her toes, saying, "Oh, yes! Yes, indeed, yes. Oh, thank you. Marvelous idea!"

As I was walking around the coffee table, I remembered reading an erotic story of a young kid who massaged his mom's legs so he could look under her robe. Each day his mother relaxed a little bit more, the story went, and each day he'd get a little better view. More, he was able to move up her legs each day. "How dumb!" I thought at the time. I liked the story, but knew it'd never work. Now, it seemed like a much better idea.

Then, with the keen awareness of the paranoid, I thought, "If *I* thought of this, then my mother probably did as well. She probably know what I'm up to." Yet her relaxed body surrender suggested otherwise as I sat on the coffee table and said, "Gimmie a footsie, lady."

"Footsie?" she asked, as she picked up one leg and offered it to me, opening up the view of her entire pantied pelvis and crotch. "Since when did you get so cute?"

"You want this massage or not?" As if I'd be content to just walk away if she decided she really didn't want it.

"You can call it anything you want. Just rub it for me, please."

In retrospect, I don't know if one might have viewed this as some right of passage. Almost certainly not, yet it had a profound impact on me that colored my thinking and my thoughts, seemingly to this day. I mean, why else can I recall with such vivid clarity the texture of her skin and the color of her clothes? Why else did this produce a deeply etched memory that was swamped with eroticism?

Because I'd sat next to her feet on the coffee table, when she offered me her foot, I'd pulled it slightly aside to hold it in both hands. This caused her dress to climb still higher on her thighs and open her legs still more. Her panties were a burnished saffron in the long light. I was so close and my view was so clear, I could see the lacy edges and the stitching. As well, I could see her auburn pubic curls through the near- transparent material. No panty gusset here.

Squiggling, she groaned in obvious anticipation, "Billy, you're saving this day from being a total bust. Thanks."

Bending to my task, I started a slow rubbing, more a caress really, that ran the length of the sole of her foot. Initially, softly with a slow build up and then slowly kneading deeper, causing her toes to curl. Accompanied by appreciative groans, I attempted to establish a level of pleasure that might allow me to go farther.

With my head down, looking up through my eye lashes, I was trying to drink in the vision of her exposed private place. I knew it was risky, but at that moment, I was out of my head. I'd suddenly become a sexually-aware and turned-on young man and the erotic thrill of that sight had a much greater pull than the fear of getting caught.

I scooted closer and slipped under her legs, placing one stockinged foot on my chest as I ran my hands over her calf from knee to ankle, still staring at the darker shadow of her pussy seen inside the taut and stretched crotch of her panties. With one thigh pulled aside, her tendon stood out, tenting the leg of her panties a bit and exposing a rich forest of pubic curls peeking from under the edge.

.... There is more of this story ...

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