Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Fiction, Incest, Mother, Son, First, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Squirting, Food, Pregnancy, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Slow,
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A mother and son, isolated from the culture around themselves, find solace in each other.
Japan had turned out to be a bust. After a messy divorce, my mother had uprooted me and dragged me halfway across the world, looking for a fresh start in a new country. I didn't begrudge her that, of course; she had really needed to start over after the job my ... well, I still felt the slow burn of anger in my gut when I thought of him that way, but my father had done on her. Call me a romantic, but I think if you marry someone, you should be committed to her. He hadn't; he'd taunted her with his affairs, yelled and screamed at her. I couldn't be certain, but I suspected he'd gotten physical with her, too, but fortunately for everyone involved he'd gotten tired of it and dissolved the marriage.
Any way, mom had gone for, and been given, a middle-management position for a Japanese advertising firm that specialised in helping companies break out into the West. I'd been studying the language for a few years by then at High School, so I could get by well enough until the total immersion filled in the blanks, but it had been much harder on my mother than she'd care to admit. She'd had an intensive crash course on the language, and I helped her wherever I could, but learning a new language- to say nothing of the three different scripts and dizzying variations in dialect appropriate to different situations or social status- was far from easy. She could manage a basic conversation, like ordering a meal or when she was shopping, but much more than that was beyond her.
As a result, her social circle was mostly limited to her work colleagues, along with anyone who was fluent in English. I'd tried to keep in contact with my friends State-side, but their calls and e-mails had trickled off over the year I'd been away, and I was more than a little sick of trying to reconnect with them. The local kids were nice enough, but to them I was gaijin- a curiosity more than an actual person. Not only was I white, but I filled the stereotype they had of Westerners- tall, sandy-haired (though they all thought it was the hallowed blonde), and blue-eyed. Whilst the girls tittered over me, the guys were instantly jealous, a situation I'd not helped by refusing to back down to the local bully and having the temerity to actually get good grades. I had a great memory, and because I had no plans of attending a Japanese university, I didn't bother with cram school; my own study program worked well enough to keep me in the top five or ten of each class as it was.
As bad as the guys were, the girls had been worse. Far from flinging themselves at me, they had no idea what to do. I was this mysterious Westerner, and who knew what that might mean? American media was pervasive, but sitcoms are more than a little unrealistic when dealing with the delicate subject of dating. I'd overheard them talking to each other about it. Would I want- or perhaps expect sex on the first date? Would I have multiple flings instead of a serious relationship? Not only that, but the local customs are ... weird. They have this thing about admitting attraction. It's important to present your game face in Japan, and anything that might knock the mask askew is discouraged. So even if they do feel anything, they'll never show it- right up until they make a babbling "confession."
No, really. That's what they call it. The smitten person goes up to the object of their interest and declares their undying love, like some sort of Shakespearian soliloquy. This usually results in an unmitigated disaster; the game face and pressure of school conspire to mean that whatever they think is attractive in the other person is a quirk of stress or a facade. Even worse, the person who's just been confessed all over is usually hiding their own torch for someone else.
It was enough to make you tear your hair out, honestly. It might be bigotry speaking, but to me the reasons for the declining population growth and marriage numbers were pretty obvious. So the local dating scene was useless, and I was a normal, healthy guy. I needed an outlet- which brings us neatly to where I was right now.
For all its obsessiveness over admitting attraction to one another, Japan is- paradoxically- fairly open about sex. Partly it was to do with luring Westerners in and making a quick buck, but since that was what I was going for, it was hardly as though I had any right to complain. Although the "Japan is weird" meme is a trifle forced, it's also kind of true. And the store I was in was basically a temple to the idea. Although there are rules and regulations about actual pornography, they don't really apply to artwork. Well, they do, but there are more ways around them. Tentacles, ghosts, inanimate objects springing to life, monster girls ... you name it, you can find it. Rule 34 of the Internet, writ large. There is porn of it. No exceptions.
I'd slunk into the hentai store, half-afraid the workers would boot me out for being underage. But for once, being a barbarian outlander worked in my favour; they must have thought I passed muster, for they made no comment. I browsed through the shelves, flipping through manga after manga, trying to find something that would be stimulating enough to be worth buying. I wandered aimlessly, paying no attention to the banners delineating the various fetishes they catered for. Eventually, I wandered to the section where this story probably really begins.
My next aimless selection seemed to be what I was after; it depicted a bookish-looking woman in a blouse and business skirt, hair pulled back in a bun. She was wearing glasses, something I've always found alluring- an indication of quick wit, perhaps. I leafed through it, deciding it was exactly what I was after based on the images; eventually, I began to read the text, puzzling over some of the unfamiliar kanji. Realising what the book was, I very nearly dropped it. I snapped it shut, the loud sound causing other shoppers to look up. I blushed, but they were uninterested; just another tourist looking for his kicks.
The manga was about a mother and her son. It was ... I don't even know. Rationally, I was thinking I should find the very idea abhorrent, but my groin seemed not to share that sentiment. Glancing around to make sure nobody was watching me, I read a few panels. The scenario was patently absurd; a son had walked in on his mother masturbating, and after explaining what sex was to him, she had asked if he would like to replace her fingers with his cock. I could feel my own penis beginning to stir, and I hurriedly- but silently, this time, closed the book. I scanned the shelf, finding another manga titled "Mother Love" by the same artist, which I grabbed and then all-but sprinted to the checkout with.
Again, the store clerks ignored my age, and I paid for the books before stuffing them into my backpack and heading for home. As I left, I rather belatedly remembered that the age of majority in the Prefecture was 16, which I was well past in any case.
Once there, I went to my room. I knew I wouldn't have time to get off, if I was insane enough to wank there; the flat was of traditional design, complete with the rice-paper sliding walls and tatami straw mat floors. Not only would it be too easily overheard in such close quarters, but my mother was due back from work within an hour of me getting home any way. The only place in the house I considered safe was the small en suite, which was in the Western style, clashing with the rest of the apartment. That, however, I did not mind; I was not a fan of the traditional squat-toilet, and I preferred to shower rather than bath.
So it was that I loafed around on my futon, idly paging through my new acquisitions. I planned to wait until my mother was asleep that night before padding, ninja (hah!)- like into the en suite for a little alone time. I still found the idea taboo, but I liked the art work; the clash of the slight revulsion I felt pushed back against the lure of the well-drawn woman.
I was bought back to the present when I heard metal jingling and a lock opening, at which I fumbled the books under the futon to hide them, grabbing a school book instead and pretending to be engrossed in my studies. My mother poked her head into my room, mumbled a greeting, and then retreated; I was glad she had not stayed over-long, because if she had she might have noticed that I held the textbook upside down. I doubted she would be able to read the kanji in the incest manga, but I hardly wanted to chance discovery.
When I was sure she was back in her own room, I toyed with the idea of reading some more. Ultimately, I decided not to- I was getting pretty worked up, and if I read much more I would need some relief. I sighed, deciding to study for real, reorienting the book and flipping to the chapter we were working on at school. As I did so, I heard a muffled sniffle, followed by a much louder honk as my mother blew her nose. Was she crying? I listened intently, catching soft sobs through the nearly non-existent walls. Concerned, I dropped the book and went to my mother's room, rapping on the wood panel before sliding it open to check on her.
She was crying, facing away from me on her raised mattress. She'd gotten half-way to changing into house clothes, judging by the tangled heap in front of me. I picked out her name on the coppery ID bar she wore; in katakana the phonetic No-bi-rru Sa-ma-n-sa-san, and in blocky English capitals, Ms. Samantha Noble. After the divorce, she had changed back to her maiden name; in a show of support I had followed her, helping her to cast off all reminders of my father.
I shuffled across the room, not really knowing what to do, but desperate to provide her with some comfort. All we really had was each other, and I felt that she'd been hurt more than enough in the past without any further pain. I dropped to my haunches, rubbing her back reassuringly whilst I fished out a clean handkerchief. As she accepted it, dabbing at her tears, I sat down beside her, slipping my arm around her shoulders.
"What's wrong, mom?" I asked, gently. She sniffled a few more times, honked away again, and then her story came out in a rush. There was a man at work, she said, who she'd fancied. She'd finally worked up the courage to ask him out to dinner, and had gone to his office to issue the invitation- only to overhear him denigrating her to someone on the 'phone, calling her dowdy and unappealing.
I was incensed. I gave her a tight hug, turned her face to mine, and in a no-nonsense tone, I said, "Well, he's wrong. The man's a prig." She attempted a weak smile; I persevered. "He wouldn't know beauty if it up and slapped him in the face. Which," I opined, "is what you should have done. Asshat," I mumbled, loudly enough to be heard. Her smile brightened, though whether from my assessment of his character or the compliment, I could not tell.
"Really?" she fished, obviously seeking approval.
"Really," I nodded. As I did, I appraised her, for the first time as a man rather than merely as her son. She had long, dark hair, a deep brown with mahogany highlights, at present drawn up in complicated-looking bun. Her eyes, still a dazzling shade of green behind her new, square-framed glasses were bloodshot and watery, but shone with hope. She had a pert nose, and her flushed cheeks were limned with freckles. Her mouth was slightly open, pearly teeth peeking out from her full, red lips. My eyes were drawn inexorably down, following the freckles that fanned across her chest. She was neither too small nor too large, breasts that would fit perfectly into the hands of any man lucky enough to be her lover.
Ack! Those were not the sort of thoughts any son should be having about his mother. And yet, those and more whirled though my mind. I wondered what those lips would taste like, what colour her aureoles, hidden beneath a white satin bra might be, what she would look like in the grip of an orgasm. All that, in a few heartbeats.
"Thanks, Ben," she said, eyes still downcast. "Even though I know you don't really mean it."
I lifted her chin, my eyes meeting hers. Was it the manga that unlocked this door? Or, I wondered, had I just needed to be made aware of my mother's body to find it attractive? Whatever the reason, I was growing hard, all thought impaired as my libido began to take charge.
"I do mean it. Mom." I said, leaning in to kiss her. Not chastely, as a son should, but full on the lips, tasting the strawberry-flavoured lip-gloss she preferred. She began to respond, similarly overcome- but unlike me, logic still held sway over her. She drew back, voice husky. "We can't. We shouldn't," she began, silenced when my mouth closed over hers again. This time, she pushed me away, but gently. "Ben, I'm your mother."
I would not allow the accident of my birth to dissuade me. I whispered "I know, mom. It's OK," pressing her down onto the bed and kissing her again. She lay there, unresponsive, neither fighting back nor returning the kiss, so I slid one hand to her breasts, squeezing it softly through the bra that hid it from my heated gaze. At that, she did respond- though not in the way I had hoped.
She pushed me away again. "Ben, no. It's incest. Are you crazy?"
"Crazy for you, maybe," I whispered, leaning back in. I pressed my groin against her, making sure she could feel my hardness through my pants. I slipped my hand underneath the bra, cupping her breast before pulling it free. I reared up, taking a moment to survey my mother before pressing on, stripping my sweat pants off and revealing my hardness to the one woman in my life who should never see me that way.
She lay there, as if hypnotised. I lay back on top of her, kissing her deeply, fondling her breasts. She turned her face away from me, no longer fighting, but still obviously conflicted. "Oh, baby. No. Don't, please, no..." she trailed off, moaning softly as I reached between her legs, drew back the cloth over her crotch, and felt for her sex. It was wet, and seemed to burn under my fingers. Without preamble, I thrust the tip of my cock into her, gauging her reaction.
She closed her eyes, perhaps imagining I was someone else. "Mom?" I whispered. She lay there, silent and as unmoving as stone. Well, no matter to me; I would have my pleasure with her help or without it. I began inching into her. Eventually, I could go no further; I made an experimental thrust, at which point my mother's eyes fluttered open. "Fuck," she swore. She craned her head, looking down to where I was violating her.
She looked back up to me. "Oh, baby. This is insane." She reached up; I braced for a fight, but instead she tangled her fingers in my hair, pulled me down, and delivered a searing kiss. Her hips twitched up towards me, but all too soon she pushed me back. She breathed deeply, her chest rising and falling most enticingly. "Take it off," she whispered, voice hoarse. I looked back at her, nonplussed. "The bra, you idiot," she scolded.
I wrestled with the arcane clasp. Thankfully it was the sort that fastened at the front, for I would have been totally lost if it was one with the clasp at the back. Her other breast sprang free, and I folded the material away, hands exploring those soft mounds. She sighed, writhing underneath me, then guided my head to her teat. I caught it in my mouth experimentally, grazing my teeth across the sensitive nipple, sucking the dark aureole into my mouth. My mother moaned, then pulled my face back to meet hers. "You always did like sucking on mommy's tits."
I chanced a smile. She chuckled, blushing prettily. "But it's better now, when you'll be able to remember and enjoy it properly and enjoy it, isn't it?" Rather than nodding or speaking, I began moving inside her again, withdrawing and then plumbing her depths. Again, she gasped. "Oh, baby. That's it. Fuck me. Fuck mommy."
I finally found my voice, though it was small, rather than the deep baritone I tried to effect. "How?" I asked. Again, a chuckle.
"You're doing it already. Or hadn't you noticed?"
I shook my head, expanding on my request. "What I mean is, how do you want to be..." I hesitated, before making it real. "How do you want to be fucked?"
She smiled impishly, then grabbed my hips to guide me in pleasuring her properly. She kept a running commentary throughout, to which I paid close attention, though I cannot for the life of me remember it now. All I can recall is the wondrous sensation of her pussy clenching around me, her soft cries and moans as I penetrated her. "Although," she finished thoughtfully "this isn't really my favourite position."
I cocked my head, curious. "And what is?"
"Cowgirl," she said promptly. "Woman on top. Your father, he..." she broke off, not wanting to conjure those memories. "Err, well. I never got to do it often. Before."
I rolled off her, onto my back, wrestling her onto me. Clasping her tight, kissed her, slipping my tongue in and swirling it around; she mirrored the gesture. I finally released her, whispering into her ear "Well, I'm not him. And I want it to be good. For you. It should only ever be good."
She sat up, smiling radiantly at me. She stroked at me with one hand, the using the other to shimmy out of her panties. Naked, she straddled me, holding my cock at her entrance. "Take a good look, sweetheart," she advised me, sliding down onto me, exhaling softly as she did so. I marvelled at her sex, the way its lips flared to accommodate me. The tightness, the wetness, the furious heat. She grabbed my right hand, bought it to her sopping slit, and taught me how to stimulate her clitoris. With my free hand, I took hold of a breast, stilling it and running my thumb over the hard nub in its centre.
Squirming, gasping, and grunting, we raced each other to climax. As she shivered atop me, caught up in her orgasm, I began to spurt within her. Even after she had ground to a halt, taking as much of me into herself as she could, I continued to spasm, continued to ejaculate inside her. Her shoulders twitched in a laugh.
"I'll take that as a compliment."