As a child - and through my teen years - I don't believe my mother was the object of my friends' fantasies as their mothers were mine. My mother was, well, just a lot more motherly than their mothers. She didn't have a nice tight body with ample breasts that she readily displayed in skimpy bathing suits as did my friend Jim's mom. Nor did she have a rumored reputation of boffing school chums of her son as my friend Chad's mom had. To be sure, those two women, among others, were masturbation fantasies for myself and many others around school, but never once in my formative years did I think about my own mother in that manner. Obviously, though, I wouldn't be writing this story if my feelings about her had not changed.
To be honest, my mother is not a cosmetically beautiful woman. She stands at just a few inches past five feet and, in recent years, has added some thickness around her thighs and hips and all that lies between. She's always been somewhat flat in the chest and whatever perkiness there once was in that area has long since departed. She has fair skin accented by numerous freckles on her face and body, typical of those bestowed with the color of red hair she possesses. She is now just past fifty years of age, a fact that is affirmed by a few more lines on her face and a smattering of gray hairs on her head.
In my physical description of my mother, I am simply being truthful. What that description lacks is how wonderful of a mother (and now grandmother) she has been to her children. I am the middle child, sandwiched between two sisters. My mother and father met in high school, dated for a couple of years and, then, married shortly after their graduation. My father was a hard worker, beginning as a blue-collar laborer for the railroad before moving into the administrative offices of the railroad later in his career. Unfortunately, he passed away several ago, not long after my youngest sister graduated from high school. Mom was lonely at first, of course, as all of her children were now out of the house she raised them in. However, my oldest sister had her first child - a girl - not long after my father's death and my mother soon found herself with a new generation of our family to care for. My sisters and I are all spread out across the country (and away from Mom), so my mother found herself away from her own home much of the time, caring for my older sister's children (yes, she had more) and then my younger sister's kids as she, herself, got into the breeding game. We all see each other during the holidays two or three times a year and we keep in touch by phone and written correspondence as much as we can, too. In short, despite being spread throughout the country - or maybe because of it - we have remained a close family.
In my late twenties now, I have remained single despite watching both my older and younger sisters marry and start families. With a few of my friends from college I started a small, city-wide arts review magazine. We review local theatrical productions, film, local authors, etc. The pay is admittedly poor, but it does give me easy access to all of these events, which helps my dating life. My sex life in college, alternately, involved screwing the best looking girl I could find or, occasionally, whomever I could find. I'm no Don Juan by any means, but I was able to hook-up with some very attractive women. On other occasions, I hooked-up with some not so desirable women - women I'm probably lucky I didn't contract something from. Anyway, in the last couple of years, I have tried to get serious about the girls I have been seeing. There have been a series of rather plain, but extremely good-hearted and kind, women who I have spent a few to several months with each. Despite my own good intentions, I found that I cannot ultimately take the relationships to the next step when that next step is needed. I became increasingly more contemplative about this problem of mine and the girls I have been in relationships with and came to a conclusion: They are not my mom.
It seemed so obvious now. The girls shared so many things with my mom - their looks, their general personality - but they were not my mom. She was obviously what I wanted all of these years, I just didn't know it. I began to think about her at night, her pale, wide thighs, her ample ass, her small breasts which I knew I could almost get my whole mouth around. I stopped dating other women and became solely focused on my mother. Thanksgiving was just a month away and I thought about how I would seduce her every night as I stroked myself to sleep.
I arrived home - my mother's house where I grew up - on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, my sisters and their families had arrived before me, so as I walked through the door, I was inundated with hugs from nieces and nephews, all of them shouting, "Uncle Alex, Uncle Alex!" until their respective parents pulled them from me. I greeted both of my sisters and their husbands warmly before noticing the absence of my mother.
"Where's Mom?" I asked my older sister.
"In the kitchen getting food ready for tomorrow," she said. "You should go in and see her, she'll be so happy you're here."
I walked through the living and dining rooms and peered into the kitchen, just as my mother had bent over to pull something out of the refrigerator. She was wearing sweat pants and a T-shirt, her customary loungewear over the past few years. Her sweat pants fit like a glove on her thick thighs and round, bubbly butt. I was tempted to rip them down her body right then and take her from behind. This was the dichotomy of my mind at that moment: wanting to make nice, sweet love to my mother, but also wanting to passionately and hardly penetrate every last one of her orifices.
Finally finishing in the refrigerator, my mother stood up and noticed me in the doorway.
"Oh, honey, come here," she said, but fortunately, due to the tent pole that had developed in my pants which I was trying to conceal by slightly bending over, she came to me first. We embraced tightly for a minute, my erection pressing into her stomach. She had to notice, but didn't say anything. I lowered my head and slightly sniffed her red, but graying, hair. It smelled of the lilac-scented shampoo she had used for as long as I could remember - it was heaven. Still holding each other by the arms, we drew apart and looked at each other. A huge smile filled nearly all of her freckled face, which I then held as I moved my lips towards hers. Though I tried not to make the kiss any longer than our usual greetings, it had much more significance to me since the realization I wanted to bed my mother. She tasted so good to me - like, well, home-cooking - as I let my lips suck just a little bit around her lower lip before I relented to my better judgment and moved away from her face.
Starting to tear up a bit, she said: "It's so nice to have you here with your sisters. I know it has only been a few months since I saw you, but it always seems like so much longer. How long can you stay?"
As long as it takes to screw the rest of the red out of your hair, I was thinking, but instead said: "My schedule's somewhat flexible through the weekend."
The rest of the evening was relatively uneventful, sexually speaking. My mother spent most of the time with my nieces and nephews, doting on them, as my sisters and their husbands and I caught up with each other since the last time we had spoken. As I talked with them, I kept an eye on my mother as she bent down to play with my nephew or got on all fours to chase my nieces around. Trying to keep my mind focused on the conversations, I was also struggling with trying not to shoot a huge load of cum in my own pants while watching my mom and thinking about what I wanted to do with her.
The evening, alas, came to a close and the adults all went upstairs to our respective rooms while the children slept on the floor in the living room. If it had not been for the presence of the rest of my family in the house, I may have become adventurous and attempted my seduction that night, but, not knowing the results of an attempt, I played it safe and just jerked off in my old bed that night, thinking about my mother. The irony of doing the same fifteen years ago while thinking about my friends' mothers did not escape me.
I awoke early the next morning. I thought I heard some racket coming from the kitchen downstairs. Putting on a robe to cover up my only-boxers-clad-body, I opened the door to my room and crept down the stairs. Being careful not to wake my nieces and nephews on the floor of the living room, whose sleep appeared to be uninhibited from the noise in the kitchen, I followed the noise through the dining room and found my mother, in her nightgown, furthering preparations for our Thanksgiving dinner.
Again she didn't notice my presence at first, so I got to ogle her short, stout body as she bent over and reached and bent over again before she turned around to greet me.
"I hope I didn't wake you up," she said in a hushed tone.
"No," I lied, "not at all. Can I help with anything in here?"
"I think I got it under control," she replied, "but you can keep me company if you want."
"Of course," I said, taking a seat on a stool by the breakfast bar. We talked, steadily but quietly, as she prepared our dinner, myself adding the term "stuffing the turkey" to my sexual euphemisms list. We talked about all things, about her activities, about mine. She was especially interested in my dating life. Wanting to be completely honest, I told her about all of the girls I had been seeing recently.
"The problem is, Mom," I said, "none of them hold a candle to you."
.... There is more of this story ...