"Your mom's a porn star!"

I could remember a time, long ago, when that taunt had driven me into a fury. I'd been suspended from High School for a week after starting a fight with the kid who'd said it, eager to defend my mother's virtue. Trouble was ... he'd been right. At that stage, I'd yet to undergo puberty, so my sexual awakening was a ways off yet.

But eventually, the time came when I started to notice girls. Well, when I started to notice women. There's a distinction to be made there, and it's important. It's more than a matter of physique- though I very much preferred the lushly developed form of a mature woman to the rail-thin look favoured by girls my own age- it's matter of confidence, bearing. Grace, I suppose you could call it.

Any way, when I finally underwent my sexual awakening, I did what most teenage males did; I went on-line in search of porn to jack off to. The Internet proved to be a veritable goldmine for masturbatory aids; I even came across whole websites devoted to what they called "MILFs" and what I called beautiful women. The scenarios were many and varied, from teachers giving special lessons to neighbours taking advantage of the kid next door after he mowed their lawn. I was hooked, but what I found was that, after a time, the then-current crop of amplified mid-twenty types did less and less for me. I started to look for women who were naturally buxom, and that meant digging into the back catalogue of Internet porn.

Eventually, I stumbled across something that both captivated and horrified me- evidence that the guy I had smacked down for bad-mouthing my mother was in fact telling the truth! Staring at the photo gallery I had been lured to from a thumbnail site depicting the well-developed torso of what was supposed to be an older woman, I instead stumbled across the still photos from a video starring my mother.

Initially, I had not noticed the woman's identity; I had been far more concerned with the magnificent architecture of her bust, concealed behind a white lace bra that emphasised her already impressive bust. Eventually, my eyes wandered across the rest of her body, alighting on her hauntingly-familiar face. I remember my brow furrowing in thought as I mentally added ten years and dressed rather than undressed her in my mind.

My stomach churned. I knew I should not be looking at my mother, of all women, this way. But there was just something so wrong, so forbidden about it that seared its way into my mind. That day, I had closed the browser window and tried to forget what I had seen, what I now knew. All to no avail.

I live in an area where it gets quite hot and humid in the summer; my mother's standard practice once home from work was to change into the lightest clothes she could find, usually a bikini top and some cut-off shorts. As a result, I had no respite; as I ate dinner that night across the table from her, my eyes were again drawn to her magnificent cleavage, so enticingly on display in front of me. I was glad of the table between us, for I sported a raging boner; it took me a good half-hour, stuffing myself beyond gluttony with food as an excuse to not get up.

As I lay in bed, sweating beneath the fan and feeling ill from the amount of food I'd eaten and the thoughts running through my head, I knew something had to give. Since nothing I could do would hasten my digestion (well, unless I threw up, and I didn't want my mother fretting over me in the state I was in) I decided to masturbate to try and take my mind off things.

I dug through my craftily-concealed store of brochures and lingerie ads, looking for inspiration. As I leafed through the pile, one page fell free; although I had selected it for the picture of Pamela Anderson on one side, the other had Susan Sarandon wearing a low-cut dress. I decided to go with that image, and began stroking as my eyes roved across the actress' body.

I make no bones about being a breast man. Although I do try to look women in the eye when I meet them, I always spare a surreptitious glance towards their bust line, trying to gauge their size and imagine their feel. Susan was- and is- a very well-endowed woman, vibrant and gorgeous. Starlets half her age would kill- or at least undergo surgery- to have curves like hers. But as I jacked off, the image in front of me faded. I began, without wanting to- in fact, trying hard not to- imagining it was my mother in that same dress, glorious cleavage threatening to spill free for the enjoyment of all present.

Although I hoped my erection would wilt when faced with such mental imagery, the exact opposite happened. I grappled with my conscience, eventually giving up and going back to bed, still rock-hard and getting antsy. Predicably, having left myself in that state, I had a wet dream; Susan Sarandon was my schoolteacher, and she called me in for a chat about my grades. She left the room to answer a phone call, but when she walked back in she wore a mask, and went straight for my cock. The sex was fast and furious; as I orgasmed, I tore the mask off, intending to watch as she, too, climaxed...

Only to find my mother gazing up at me, the same look of lust she'd reserved for her co-star in the pictures I had inadvertently found gleaming up at me. I startled awake, just in time to start spurting. Frustrated, I punched the pillow.

From then on, I could never masturbate without the thought of my mother's naked, sweaty body writhing underneath me crossing my mind. For the longest time, I resisted, but eventually the habit turned into a fantasy, and I began to actively seek out my mother's work. I found a part-time job and slaved away washing dishes to earn enough money to pay for a computer and high-speed Internet access, all so I could browse for my mother's porn in complete privacy.

Days became weeks; weeks became months and years. I had to train myself to listen carefully for my mother's approach, because I so often became hard whilst she was around. All I could think of was my mother, so no other girls held any interest for me; rumours began to circulate that I batted for the other team. Remembering how badly my first response to the accusation of my mother's past work had gone down, I refrained from solving the problem with my fists, but I was unable to bring myself to bed any of the High School girls.

As soon as I looked at them, compared them to my mother. They were all too thin, too flat-chested- and for those rare few that did match my ideal body type, too young. They just lacked that indefinable quality that made older women, made my own mother, seem so much more desirable. It became a self-reinforcing pattern; I was turned on by my mother, and I had no other outlet but her porn. My attraction became an obsession, and I constantly had to fight to keep it under wraps.

I would "accidentally" barge in on her when she was getting dressed or under the shower, comparing the way her body was now to the many photographs stored on my PC's hard drive. In my eyes, she looked better now than she ever had; her breasts were larger, though slowly losing their battle with gravity. She had kept herself trim; the only signs of encroaching age were the laugh lines and deep tan of her skin, legacy of a lifetime spent in a warm climate. She was, to me, perfection itself.

Although I managed to cop an eyeful of her breasts on a regular basis- I even managed to spy on her sunbaking topless by the pool- the mystery that lay between her milky-white thighs eluded me. For a time, at least. Fate played into my hands, there; I had learned that my mother preferred to sleep naked, even during winter. I had been too afraid to try and take advantage of this knowledge, and since I knew "I'm afraid of the dark" wouldn't get me into her bed at my age, I despaired of ever seeing her fully unclothed, but for her appearances in my pictures and movies.

My mother had long complained of tiredness but an inability to sleep; she went for sleep testing. I remembered it well, a night I put to use masturbating into, then cleaning and drying several pairs of her black satin panties, but they determined it was an artefact of stress rather than a genuine sleep disorder. Her psychologist assigned her some anti-anxiety medication and some sleeping tablets that would knock her out for hours on end.

After I was sure they were working (I tested with loud music for a week first), I crept into my mother's room, armed with a digital camera. Whilst she lay sleeping, her legs spread before me, I filled the memory stick with image after image of her, zooming in and out and at all possible angles. Although fearful of discovery, I had decided to feel her up that day, and I slid one hand up her leg, from her ankle half-way up her thigh before she mumbled in her sleep and made to roll over. I covered her back up, then fled with my prize.

For a few months, my new collection was enough to see me through. But too much is never enough, and I always wanted more. I knew what she looked like naked, I knew what she sounded like when she was having sex- oh boy, did I ever. My mother apparently loved to talk dirty, and was quite vocal whilst being fucked; merely listening to the videos could revive me if I flagged, and they frequently sent me over the edge more quickly than I would have liked.

What I really wanted was to know how she felt. I wanted to caress the breasts that had fed me, explore the channel that had expelled me. I wanted to taste her slick juices- hell, I wanted to screw her the way others had.

And so it was, one mid-summer day during a heat wave, that she came home a mess of perspiration and retired immediately to bed. I waited for an hour, giving the tablets time to do their work, before slipping quietly into my mother's room once more. This time, my luck was better; she had thrown back the cotton summer sheets, and lay naked beneath the beating blades of the fan. I slowly, quietly got onto the bed, devouring her flawless body with my eyes.

She had lovely long locks, ash-brown and shot through here and there with sun-bleached blonde streaks. In her sleep, she lost all traces of worry, unburdened by the waking world. She had the slightest smile on her lips, and as she breathed deeply her bust rose and fell slowly. Almost shaking with my combined need and fear of being caught, I reached out to cup her breasts, lifting them from where they rested to test their weight. My mother sighed, gently, and I froze, but she stirred no further. I waited for a subjective eternity, staying motionless to be sure she was asleep.

When I was satisfied she would not awake, I resumed my exploration. She trimmed her pubic bush rather than shaved it, leaving a dark patch of short fur over her mons, each hair barely longer than my thumbnail was wide. It had been cut into a clean triangle, which pointed down directly at the real object of my attentions.