My mother was beautiful. There, I said it. It had been troubling me for a long time now, some six months or more. Outside the house, she dressed demurely, even conservatively, the picture of a respectable mother. But inside it? Ah, therein lay the difference. Inside the house, she wore only lingerie. Always sheer, always tasteful, perfectly suited to her. But it drove me insane. I could not ignore it; her creamy thighs, well-formed buttocks, and impressive bust were, after all, so clearly on display.
And although I wanted to look, to lose myself in the moment and salivate over her curves, I dared not. She was my mother, after all. It was wrong, forbidden, and she had always raised me to be a gentleman. And gentleman do not stare at their mother's quivering bosom, or her luscious long legs, or at the juncture of her thighs, wondering whether she was shaved or hairy, what the lips of her sex might look like, if her labia minora might poke, enticingly, outside of that mound.
But she made it so terribly difficult for me not to look. There were days when, for reasons known only to herself, she wore a bra, panties, and a garter belt with stockings. Those days were always the worst, for they had the most profound effect on me; I tried to avoid her, but at the same time I wanted to see her, to abandon the charade and make my feelings for her known.
Today, however, she wore a fetching matched brassiere and briefs, pale blue and embroidered with flowers, roses twining across the material that contained her decolletage. The panties were masterpieces, with sheer panels that displayed her soft, supple skin and opaque panels that concealed the parts of her I most desperately wanted to see. She sashayed about the place, and as we ate dinner she leaned forward, threatening to spill out of her bra. I had worked so hard to draw laughter from her, mesmerised as her breasts shook. It was all too much for me. I had to have her.
A shocking admission, I know. But you cannot imagine her beauty, her grace, the sheer charisma she radiated. She was nothing short of a goddess in my eyes, unapproachable in her divinity. But I hungered for her in a way no son ever should. I watched her as she walked up the stairs to her room, committing to memory the soft undulation of her rump, the sway of her wide hips. I found myself hard, needy. I knew I could no longer contain myself. I stood quickly, the chair falling behind me as I hastened after my mother.
I raced to her room. She sat on the bed, rubbing lotion onto her chest. My eyes followed her fingers as they circled across the flesh I so yearned to touch myself. She was so absorbed in what she was doing, she did not notice me. I approached her slowly; she finally looked up at me when my feet entered her field of view.
"Baby," she said firmly, "you know you're not allowed in here. Not without knocking. What if I'd been naked?" Well then, I thought, I would surely be lost. Resisting her clad in gauzy underthings was proving an impossible task; had she been naked, I would have thrown myself on her, heedless of the consequences.
She finally noticed my hardness, tenting my pants. She seemed to recoil slightly, then stood, trying to usher me out of her room. I, however, would have none of that; I stepped in closer, my breath hot on her neck. "Mommy," I whimpered, "I need you."
I leaned in for a kiss, but she flushed crimson, turning her head away. "No, baby," she whispered. Still, I would not be dissuaded. I leaned in closer, my hands resting on her hips. My eyes met hers, dark brown and full of feminine mystique.
"Please?" I begged, desperate for her. Her resolve wavered, and I took the only opening I would ever get. "You're beautiful," I said, pulling her closer, so she could feel my firmness pressing against her. She shivered, though whether from revulsion or anticipation I could not tell.
I moved one hand along the waistline of those immaculate panties, descending to a point just above where I judged her sex began. "Please?" I begged again.
She was torn. Her breathing was ragged, and I fancied I could feel her heat rising. "I ... I don't know, baby. Oh, God, I shouldn't even be letting you touch me at all, not like this." But in defiance of her words, she leaned against me, jutting her already-impressive bust under my searing gaze as she did so.
"So wrong..." she whispered. My heart felt like a stone in my chest. Now was the moment of choice; would she accept me, accept this, or had I destroyed our relationship forever? She drew in a deep breath, then surrendered to the moment. To me. She could see what I was staring at.
"Do you like them, baby? Mommy's tits? They're 42b, you know. Smaller now," she added as an afterthought, "than they used to be. When you were younger. Much younger."
"I love them," I answered earnestly. "But without the rest of you, what are they worth? Nothing. I want you, mom, all of you."
Her eyes sparkled with my praise. "Ooh, very nice," she cooed. "So seductive, so smooth."
I held my breath. "Well, if I want to get anywhere with a woman of your class, mom, I know I have some work to do. Besides, I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you. I've imagined this a thousand, thousand times."
She gasped at the thought. "We shouldn't be doing this, baby," she said, though I knew it was just for show. She would not yield to me easily; I would have to earn her love, earn anything more than simply seeing her tremble. "It's so wrong. It's incest."
But again, I would not be denied. "I know," I said, surprising her with my agreement. My hands crept up towards that glorious bust, trembling as I cupped her breasts. She moaned, softly, face flushing, eyes glazing over. "But you have no idea how hard you've made it for me, mom. Parading around the house in your underwear."
She shivered, goose bumps dimpling the smooth skin of her exposed breasts. "I've seen you watching me, baby. I knew. And I knew I shouldn't dress like that, shouldn't provoke you with my body. But I was so excited when you noticed me, saw me as a woman instead of just a mother."
I chanced another kiss, but she turned her mouth away at the last instant, allowing me only to plant my lips on her flushed cheek. "No, baby," she said weakly. I knew she had used up the last of her resolve. I drew her tightly to me, firmly pressing my erect member against her. She sighed. I knew I had her.
"You're so beautiful, mom. No other woman could possibly compare to you." I knelt, taking one of her hands beneath my own, genuflecting before her. "My goddess. The queen of my heart."
She smiled down at me, then drew me back up, holding me tight. I continued with my praise of her. "A marvel of womanhood no sculptor could have ever hoped to achieve." She whimpered softly, and I slid my hand between her thighs. I could feel her wetness even through her panties. I rubbed insistently at those rubbery lips, the entrance to my mother's heated core. "I know it's wrong," I husked. "I know it's incest. But I need you so badly."
Her weight shifted a little at that, parting her legs wider and inviting me to caress her more effectively. I dropped to my knees again, gazing at the dark patch at the crotch of her panties, stained with her juices. Parted by my fingers, her lips had drawn in some of the material, marking out the cleft between her thighs which also glistened with her flow. "Oh, God, baby," she breathed. "I don't care that it's wrong. I need you so."
I smiled fearfully at her. "I want to be your lover, mommy. But ... but I've never been with a woman before."
She blushed prettily at that admission, smiling widely at me. "It's OK, baby. Just follow your heart."
"I could, mommy. But then I would just be pleasing myself. I want it to be good for you. I want to be your lover."
She moaned again, and her heat seemed to increase again, the damp spot steadily growing. "And who better to be with the first time than the woman who loves you most, baby?" I nodded, relieved that she was willing to accept an untried and untested youth.
"I want to take you slowly, mom. To see you sweating and shaking as you orgasm." That drew a gasp from her. I reached up to the waistline of her panties, pulling them down, exposing my mother's juicy opening. She was lightly furred, the tangle of pubic hair doing nothing to conceal her from my eyes. I stayed still, entranced by her, drinking in her musky scent.
"Oh, god, baby," she muttered. "I want you to come inside me."
"But I can't, mom. Don't have any condoms." A failure to prepare. Would she deny me? I resolved to take whatever morsels she would offer, treasuring them. I leaned in, licked those glistening lips. She stiffened as my tongue slid across her sensitive clitoris, sending a thrill through her incredible body.
"Taste me, baby," she urged. "And don't worry about it. I don't want you to wear condoms. I want to feel your hot juices, filling up my body." I rasped my tongue against her again, this time sliding into her vagina. It was hard going, even with her as wet as she was; she was tight, unyielding, better than anything I could have ever imagined. I grasped her hips, steering her backwards to the bed. I settled her on it, parting her legs. I stared at her, entranced by her pink, dewy lips and the hard nub of her clitoris.
"Are you sure, mom?" I pressed, gazing up at her.
.... There is more of this story ...