There is no excuse for what I did – we did; no good one, and by that I mean a virtuous justification for our – my actions. There are reasons of course, there always are; just like there are always consequences for one’s misdeeds. I don’t ask the reader’s sympathy for me, but if you have empathy for my story, I hope this narrative provides at least an understanding. Indeed, my reason for writing it is for my own clarification as to my motives and weaknesses and needs that led to the folly and fun of incest when I fucked my son Robert.
If all that sounds like a cliche, it’s because people behave similarly in like circumstances. Nonetheless, it’s all truth. Robbie, (the girlfriends call him Robert, his pals use Rob, but my sweet son has always been Robbie to me) once more interrupted my privacy while I was showering. The third time this month. His excuse for the previous times was that his sister was using the other toilet, and he had to go real bad. (That excuse didn’t hold up I later discovered.)
The first time he just peed, but he spent quite a long time, shaking and stuffing and zipping before he was through. On top of that elongated procedure (perhaps because he was himself was a bit elongated?) he asked me something [I forget about what] and delayed his departure; I became suspicious that he was trying to glimpse my naked form behind the textured plastic that blurred the lines of my still fairly svelte figure at thirty-eight.
I must confess that I did not try to conceal myself any further, as he is 16 and as a youth in these times has seen nude female flesh aplenty. No doubt when out on dates (and getting lucky) he inspected both pulchritude and ‘what lies between the thighs’ up close and personal. I actually didn’t think much about it until later, after the second time he popped in while I was soaping up. That time I had been about to rinse and the boom-poof of a cold draft cued me to the fact I was suddenly not alone. Hubby was gone by this time of morning, so was it Sally – or her brother?
“Sorry, Ma!” the tenor voice of my athletic son called out. “Sal’s hogging the other bathroom again and I’m desperate. He flipped the lid and sat, dropping his boxers all with a smooth practiced movement. After a perfunctory, “MM-K”, which I mumbled loud enough to be heard over the running water, I continuing my rinsing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some sort of rhythmic motion, also well practiced no doubt. ‘He’s pulling on his pecker, isn’t he!’, I couldn’t help smiling a little as I saw my boy surreptitiously masturbating in the presence of his nude mother. I was both disturbed and pleased at the same time.
What pleased me was not what he was doing. No, see I was body-proud for having inspired him; that’s why I smirked. What disturbed me was that I didn’t think that was an appropriate response for a proper mother; I felt guilty for not being outraged. In fact, it was a turn-on in a strange exotic way, like I was a stripper, performing for a patron.
I moved my torso in a sexy sinuous sway, and I heard the increased tempo of his taboo tattoo beating on his beef with his flying fist. In a totally uninhibited move, I have no idea where it came from, I thrust my abdomen against the translucent plastic right next to the face of Robbie who was peering directly at me.
What he saw was the dark delta of his mom’s bush flush with the shower stall, moving up and down in provocative thrusts. That was enough to send him into paroxysm and he managed to grab a hand full of tissue to catch the stream of cream. Naughty thought in my brain, ‘would have loved to suck that boy’s toy and sip at that fountain’ . . . but he’s your son – I protested in my head, as I turned away from his spewing form and my own fingers dug into my gash. Just the same I had to admit in all honesty that my son was what my ‘salty/sassy’ mother would have said of hunks like him, beefcake: as in “wouldn’t mind a roll in the hay with that beefcake!” Like mother, like daughter – highly sexual.
I waited until he made his exit, it was as hasty as his entrance. I don’t know if he knew that I knew what was going on, (but then if I didn’t, why did I give that hump on the glass for him to see?) but at least he missed the spectacle of his mother cumming too, not thirty seconds after his departure. That would have been embarrassing! I admitted it to myself, once I was recovered. If he wasn’t my son, I might be tempted. Still, I viewed our (almost) mutual masturbation as a “one-off” as the Brits put it, though it was both of us that got off.
Until, upon chance, Sally mentioned she had been out of the house extra early the day before; when according to Robbie, she was hogging the other facilities at home. So that second time was a deliberated attempt to ogle his naked mom. Was the time before a ruse too? Would he try again and what should my response be? Not “come on, Honey, let’s inspire each other to erotic heights”, that would be far too naughty; even though my libido itched for the tang of the forbidden and to taste dark desires. Just like a sultry heroine in those romance novels, who’s attracted to the bad-boy image of the romantic leading man of the plot, I had smoldering yearning.
Even though I had tried to put some thought into the situation, I was still unresolved eight days later when again my privacy was yet once more invaded. But this time, I was nearly finished with my ablutions (i. e., washing up, for those who are struggling with vocabulary issues) and I figured I’d be out of the room before he was done. Whoops! Robbie stood between me and the big fluffy towel I use. I coaxed, “Hey, Hon, hand me my towel, the pink one . . . rather, throw it over the top.”
I saw flesh, white, and pink blobs of moving forms draw close to the stall, and then the door opened.
I’m dripping in the buff. Robbie is in jockey-shorts – he already has a woodie who’s tip is peeking out. The towel in his hand is not outstretched, but held so that I have to reach. My boy is openly staring at his mother’s body. He reached down to adjust his equipment to a more comfortable arrangement. However, I assumed, incorrectly I learned later, that he was going to stroke his meat in front of me. That first time he came in to share the bathroom – perhaps that was actually inadvertent; Certainly, the second was bolder and had ulterior motives, and now, to do it right in front of me, that was too much indeed!
I slapped him – hard.
That surprised him, and me. The look of shock on his face was one of confusion and upset. I knew instantly that I had somehow misjudged the situation and his actions. My mothering instincts took over, and heedless about my state of undress and his near nudity, forgetting about the towel, I embraced him with a big motherly hug. His hard-on had much diminished in the last few seconds, but his face nicely mushed into my breasts.
I felt bad and wanted to make amends. “OH! Robbie, sweetie, baby! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you – I was just so surprised by your opening of the door to hand me the towel. I don’t know why you’re interested in my old body anyhow.”
Robbie just wept a little and kept up his part of the hugging and nuzzling into my bosom. I tried to get him not take it so seriously, saying, “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you, Darling? Robbie, what can mommy get for her baby – would you like something special? Tell mommy.”
I felt a sucking sensation on my left nipple. Robbie’s mouth was wordlessly communicating what boon he wanted. What could be more of a mothering thing than suckling her young, even if he was over sixteen. My heart seemed to pour pure love straight from my beating organ through my nipple to Robbie’s lips. I wanted to nurture this sweet physical closeness, like when my boy was a baby. But the growing hunk of manhood between us sort of skewed (or skewered) the image.
For his erection was once more rising and that meant his latching on to suck my teat was not infantile, but erectile as in functional during arousal!! That threw some sort of switch inside me, I flipped from smothering-mothering to smoldering MILF on the make. I felt Robbie’s palm slide down my abdomen the fingers aiming for the crease, now well greased with my lubricant. The kid knew what he was doing and soon I was writhing as his right hand invaded my snatch and he played my erogenous zones like I was an alto-sax.
My hips involuntarily thrust forward at his touch, not unlike the buck against the stall wall. Robbie moved to suckle the other breast {he was a switch-titter} and his left hand caressed my buns and occasionally gave my anus a tweak. I sensed I had lost control of the situation, I sure didn’t have the will to break our incendiary clench. Instead, I clutched the flagpole that my son sported and felt it’s male power and animal urgency. The jolt of adrenalin that had zinged through my system, when I had slapped him was wearing off. I felt my knees go weak.
Robbie realized I was collapsing and eased me to the floor. The pink terrycloth added cushioning to the shag carpet we had in the master bathroom, and framed my torso as I floated down like a leaf, supported my by strong handsome son. My swoon placed him hovering over me and I gasped as my kid’s lips nibbled southward on my belly and yet further into the territory his tongue wanted to explore. My mind was thinking a thousand things about what was happening, then it went blank as my body went nova.
Rather than satiate me, I was even more ravenous for flesh after that, I wanted Robbie’s rod ramming my raunchy red-inflamed crotch. I gathered him upward and into my arms. As my limbs formed a cradle for my child, so he eased himself lower to entwine our bodes in a most ancient position. I could feel his penis “knock – knock – knockin’ on Heaven’s door”; paradise awaited us both with his return from whence he came. I gloried in the sensation; the bulb’s bursting through the portals of my pussy to prod deep within the sanctuary of my vagina, right to the very mouth of my womb, source of life.
There is something electric, an extra intensity in the physical contact of incest, when motivated by love to such carnal heights. So with each stroke of his long dick, as it sawed in and out of my engulfing cunt, the excitement was rocketing. It was the apogee of animal appetites, primitive and primal, punctuated with our grunts and moans and squeals. Skin was slapping skin and the smacking was ringing off the tiles. We were locked together in a jointed hug, chest mashing mams; with hips and thighs in a motion that scissored the sexes back and forth, each working toward the ideal mutual moment.
I love the feel of a big dick cumming in me. Robbie’s was plenty of beef-stick, and when the pulsing ‘locked-tight’ freeze happened, his manhood completely buried to the hilt in me, with the squirting semen shot from his throbbing meat flooding warmly in my middle . . . well . . . momma lost it! I don’t remember the hysterics of that orgasm, (multi-) but I returned to some sort of sanity weeping, and then I had to laugh long and hard at the wonderful feeling of liberation that climax had released. GOD!! I hadn’t been fucked that good in waay tooo loong!!!
Yeah! He had been too bold, and too much, but he also had been too good – too good to give up.
There is no excuse for what I did – we did, and there are consequences: I know that’s so. But when Robbie gets behind me, doggie; or I’m riding cowgirl atop him, anytime we mess around; those are worth the risks. When my boy sneaks into mommy’s bathroom for some risque play, I can’t resist!
FYI: Oediplex also post under another ‘nom de naughty’ – TrojanSnake.