Crossing the Great Taboo
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, True Story, Incest, Mother, Son, Slow,
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - True story of the affair my mother and I had when I was 25 and she was 55. It's been 30 years, and I'm still amazed at what a hot, kinky slut she turned into. Chs 1 and 2 set things up. Hot action comes in Chs 3 and 4. The rest of our story to come if feedback is postive.
When I read jackieoh's story "My Mother's Son", it really hit home for me. And while my story is VERY different in most ways from that one, there are three striking similarities:
1. My mother and I had an affair thirty years ago.
2. She's been dead three months as I started writing this.
3. I am in the midst of administrating of her estate.
So, even with the huge difference in our experiences, coupled with the fact that jackieoh is at least three times the writer that I am, here's a big thanks for writing "My Mother's Lover" and getting me off the snide to do what I have wanted to do for years. And that's write my story as an effort to take it out of my personal closet and have a good long look at it. Relive it and remember the exciting times my mother and I had before our circumstances changed and we went on with our lives. I also want to set down some thoughts I've had about mother/son incest—and invite others to give me feedback.
My mother was eighty-five at her passing. Interestingly, her death was exactly thirty years to the month that she and I finally got beyond the cautious circling of each other that had been going on for weeks and crossed the line into blatant incest.
And interestingly, I am the same age now, fifty-five, that she was then. Don't know what to make of that, but as I say, it's an interesting fact. I shouldn't be surprised that I'm still a horny male at fifty-five after my mother showed me how hot and eager a female can be at that age.
It's a well-known fact how us guys have a latent desire to fuck our mothers. I've read many of the mother and son incest stories on this site. I agree with jackieoh that most of them, while good reading, seem pure stroke stories fueled by that buried longing. Some stories say they are true. But to me most of those so labeled seem to be pure fiction stoke stories fueled by the buried longing. Just my opinion.
Others, however, are eerily similar to mine in significant ways, so I'm betting they may be true as well. I'll be reading them and thinking, yeah, yeah, that's how it was with Mom and me.
If the reader is only interested in a stoke story, then go to Chapter 4 where you'll find the hot action. But if you are interested in mother/son incest as a topic beyond the stroke potential, then hang with me as I do the background for our affair. And then indulge me here and there when I muse about sexually and incest. I've had thirty years to ponder this topic and I think I have a few things to say.
My first musing on mother and son incest: Unlike so many of the stories on this site, it took a lot of things lining up just right for this to have happened with Mom and me. A lot of things. The societal taboo was so strong, and the resulting the chasm between my mother's pussy and my dick was such a great distance apart, that it took a quality effort to build a bridge for 'Crossing the Great Taboo.'
Here's the background:
I was an only child. My mother was thirty when she had me. She and Dad had long given up on her getting pregnant and were exploring adoption, when, surprise, here I came.
I was raised in a church-going family. Our church was mostly a social church, not a fire-breathing, Bible thumping place, but my upbringing was very moral and upright. We went to church every Sunday, and Mom, anyway, was very involved there. She taught Sunday school and was always on at least one committee. Our social life centered around church, which I attribute to some of the hang-ups I had about sex—(nice girls don't). I was a late bloomer, having had sex with only two girls in college before I got married the first time.
Growing up, we never discussed sex at home. It just wasn't done. Almost an asexual home, if you will. I think that came from Mom's strict upbringing. (Unlike me, she was raised in a fire-breathing, Bible-thumping church.) Mom always dressed modestly, and I never saw even a hint of cleavage. When I first learned about the birds and bees, I couldn't image my mother doing anything like that. Dad maybe, but Mom? Nah.
Mom and Dad were opposites in almost every way. Mom was reserved; Dad was an outgoing life of the party type. Mom was short and slightly plump, light haired with a great ass and bigger than average breasts. She was formal and proper, I guess is the best way to describe her. She had a calm, no-nonsense, outward demeanor and she thought everything through before acting. Dad was dark-haired, tall thin, intense, and impulsive. A Mutt and Jeff couple if there ever was one.
I was twenty-five and had been married three years when I graduated from veterinary school. My wife was a dental hygienist and worked to help but me through school. One week to the day before I graduated, the two-timing bitch came home and announced that she was leaving me to marry her boss. A traumatic experience that left me plenty wounded. (Nice girls just don't commit adultery—wrong!)
After graduating, I spent a year working seventy-hour weeks for slave wages at a big practice in Atlanta. While there, I had a live-in arraignment with a woman also going through a divorce. That relationship ended shockingly bad. (More on that soon as it played too a role in how Mom and I got going.) So my self-esteem at that point was pretty fractured. And my sexual life was non-existent.
I decided to come back to my hometown to set up my practice. Money was tight as I was plowing everything back into the startup, so I stayed with Mom and Dad until things got going.
Dad was gone most of the time. I hadn't know about it up till then, but Mom and Dad were having major problems. Dad was in senior management, and his company was building a new manufacturing facility in a small town two hundred miles away. He was part of the construction team and had to be there Monday through Friday. When he was home on the weekends, he and Mom were either fussing or seemed distant. Either way, they were not close at all.
Remember I said how several things had to line up? Looking back, I firmly believe there were eight—-count 'em—-eight vital things that fueled Mom and my journey into incest. Take any one of the eight away and I don't think it would have happened.
I've mentioned five already:
Me being twenty-five. If I had been in my teens, this would NOT have happened. No way, no how would Mom have come within shouting distance of that.
My divorce and love life traumas.
My living at home for an extended period.
Dad being gone Monday through Friday.
Mom's deteriorating marriage.
Those five led to the sixth vital ingredient, which was Mom and me talking Monday through Thursday nights at the supper table. Our talking and relating to each other as adults laid the real foundation for what happened. I was able to talk about my divorce. Mom was a good listener, and I could sense us growing closer each night as we discussed that and other topics.
That closeness and sharing led to the seventh—and I feel most important thing. (When we come to number eight, you will see that it was really seven 'b'.) Mom finally told me that Dad was having an affair with a woman in the town where the new plant was being built. More, that he'd been having affairs for years. As an example of how close Mom and I had become, she told me that she and Dad had not "been intimate" in over a year. That was something she never would have done before.
Anyway, her news about Dad totally blew me away. Just shocked me to my core. I couldn't believe that I'd been so blind and naive all these years. But after a few days to get used to it, remembering incidents in the past, and more after supper talks with Mom, I began to see it.
So, Mom and I had a lot in common with my divorce and her hurt over Dad's current and past affairs. We were two peas in a pod, and misery loves company.
I started telling her what beautiful woman she was and what a fool Dad was. I could see her soaking that up, so I kept at it daily. At this point, I was truly not thinking of sex with her. Just wasn't on my radar screen. But my compliments added to our closeness.
(An aside here: In ANY relationship with a woman, particularly one you are trying to seduce—-even though that was not what I was after at this point with Mom, not consciously at any rate—-a steady stream of compliments is vital. And a son complimenting his mother on her looks and personality is one of the common factors I see in other true incest stories. It's important to convince your mom that you care for her as a person and are not just after sex.)
So, those were the necessary ingredients: Two adults living mostly alone in the same house, both of us deprived of sex, both of us sharing our deep hurts and thus growing closer emotionally, which the experts will tell you is how most affairs start. Mom and I establishing the emotional allowed the physical to get going.
The physical started with hugs. After Mom's revelation of Dad's affair(s) and my steady stream of compliments, she started meeting me at the door as I came in the evenings and we'd have a quick hug. We'd hug after supper. We'd hug after we'd finished watching TV at night right before we went to bed.
The hugs quickly got longer. And tighter. As I said, Mom was a strictly raised, very formal woman. Growing up, my hugs with her were more a cheek-to-cheek kind of thing with our waists bent far away from each other. Now, I noticed that she begin pressing in full body. She felt good. She was round and soft. I enjoyed feeling her big breasts pressing into my chest. (I discovered then that her tits were bigger than I'd thought. She always dressed to deemphasize that fact.)
I begin to think of her in a sexual way again, as I had as a young teenager. I begin to notice her body more and what a great round ass she had. I hadn't been with a woman since breaking it off with the two-timing bitch I lived with after my divorce. (Two, two-timing bitches in a row can flat miss with your mind and your libido.) And as my being around my mother began to make me horny again, I still wasn't thinking of us getting together sexually. Mainly this had me I thinking that I was recovered enough to start dating again. And having sex again.
It never crossed my mind at that point that my upright, straight-laced, church-going mother could be desiring her own son. And would gradually let go and explore the repressed sexually that had been lurking inside from her own strict, religious upbringing, coupled with years of hurt and neglect from a cheating husband.
You can see, I was still a bit dense. But that was about to change.
I begin to notice a curious thing. I noticed that Mom's hugs would last longer the later at night it was. I usually left the clinic around 5:30 pm. I'd stop at the gym and work out, then get home around 6:30. That hug at the door was nice. The hug after eating supper and our talking was nice. We were both in regular clothes then. We'd both take a shower after supper and meet in the living room to watch TV until going to bed. It was summer as this was happening, so I would wear on a pair of gym shorts and no shirt. Mom would be in her nightgown and a belted robe that covered everything.
As I said, that hug as we were going to bed, usually around 10 pm, grew to be much longer than the others were. She'd press in and would rub her hands up and down my back, a half massage, half caress type thing. It felt good.
How long does your average hug last? Those late night hugs soon were lasting a full minute. When you think about it, that's a loooong time for any no-sexual hug, much less for a mother and son. We're holding each other, Mom pressing tighter to me every night, her soft tits pressed against my naked chest. She's rubbing my back in a very pleasing manner, and I finally—-finally—-begin to wonder if this might be sexual on her part. Kind of slow on the uptake, I know. But the implications of being wrong were very serious indeed. Mom was the most proper, moral woman I knew.
A week into our longer hugs, I took a huge step. As usual, I was wearing only a pair of gym sorts and Mom had her usual robe over her nightgown. During our late night hug after TV, and as her hands were traveling up and down my back, I gave a soft moan and said, "That feels so good."
Mom stiffened in my arms for a second. I cringed inwardly, afraid I had blown it. But then she gave a soft chuckle and said, "Glad you like it." She increased the pressure with her hands slightly.
"I really like holding you."
Mom pressed in a bit closer, tighter. "I like holding you, too." Her hands really increased their tempo. Not as much pressure, but lighter and faster. And more intimate somehow.
My dick got rock hard. With she pressing into me, her belly pushed against it. She didn't pull back, just stayed in my arms while her hand worked their magic on my back. She had to feeling my erection. Had to!
I took another risky step. "I'd really like to hold you without your robe."
Mom's hands stilled on my back. She remained in my arms a moment longer before disengaging and stepping back. "Time for bed." She headed out the TV room toward her bedroom.
I gnashed my teeth. Damnit! I had blown it. Now what? But when I darted a look at Mom as she turned away, trying to get a read on her feelings, I noted a red streak on her neck. The very first girl I ever fucked when I was a junior in regular college (late bloomer, I know) had the same type red streak on her neck when she was sexually aroused. I hoped--prayed--this on Mom was not from embarrassment, but from excitement.
That had to be a Thursday night, because I remember clearly that Dad came home the next night for the weekend. No hug from Mom, but that was usually the way it was when Dad was home.
The weekend was a bad one. The new plant was nearing startup and all kinds of things were going wrong. Dad was tired and even more irritable than normal. Maybe he and his mistress had had a fight. Anyway, he and Mom fussed or ignored each other all weekend. You could cut the chill between them with a knife. (Thank you, Dad, thank you!)
I worked at the clinic, answered a few emergency calls. But mainly I fretted about Mom and how it was going to be between her and me when Dad left Monday morning.
I also did a lot of thinking about Mom and me and the implications of incest. And how Mom was a practical, no-nonsense woman who thought her way through every major decision. At this point, all my blinders were off, and I was sure that at the very least our hugging showed she was enjoying the physical contact. I sure was.
More, I felt she had to be thinking about going further. I sure was. What I think happened Thursday night was that her strict religious childhood morality had kicked in when I mentioned her taking off the robe. I concluded that we needed to talk. We needed to be practical, and grown-up, and lay some kind of, well, philological foundation for breaking the taboo. But how do you get that kind of conversation started?