Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
[This fanciful story is of two consenting people well-over twenty-one, and revolves around what they both believe the other is thinking. It is purely a work of fiction and no animals were harmed in the process.]
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about sex. Ah I know, that doesn’t make me any different than 99.9% of the population. So to be more precise, I’ve been pondering all of its thorny implications. How that, sometimes it’s not even a good idea to discuss some of the sexual feelings that you have regarding another person, and that translating those erotic thoughts into actions can have you ostracized, pilloried, or shot! Still, the human sex drive can be maddeningly insistent. Only societal convention and an acute allergy towards buckshot keep most of us from humping in the streets.
But the aching desire for whom or what we’re attracted to can occasionally present a problem for either or both parties involved in a sexual dalliance. Some sexual situations are merely frowned upon while others are declared illegal or repugnant. Though I am hardly one to judge the morality of others, I won’t begin to absolve those who lust after other unwilling adults, any children, or certain beleaguered farm animals. But the cock wants what the cock wants. I once heard it said, that you could turn to any page in the Sears Catalogue and point to an object, and somebody somewhere wants to fuck it!
The ability to distract or tame our primal urges is often beyond our meager control. Often a whithering glance is enough to adjust a wayward attitude. Sometimes it takes a wicked slap to the face. Recognizing just how far we can push this indelicate subject can be traced to a true survival instinct. This brings me to the quaint notion of “consenting adults.” It’s difficult enough to find two people whose temperaments and inhibitions mesh in a way; that beyond the need to procreate, they form a union of like minds and reciprocal desires, that endure for a relative period of time and produce the sexual and emotional gratification needed to keep the relationship vital.
Even then though, many of these unions are not always welcomed in “so-called” civilized society. Same-sex, mixed-race, May-September romance and incest come instantly to mind. This leads me to the revelation that I have never spoken of out loud. And that is, that I am fucking my own mother. Let that sink in for a second, because I know that it always takes a moment for me to fully realize the taboo nature of our little predicament. The mythical tale of Oedipus has a truly morose ending, but the illicit thrill of seducing and possessing your mother for bouts of sexual satisfaction and/or degradation is a haunting urge. This is not a Hallmark story of unrequited love, it’s a morally obscene wet dream of fulfilling a dark, deviant desire.
My name is Michael, everybody calls me Mickey. I am now twenty-six, and this began about two yeaars ago. I am tall and lanky, nothing in particular distinguishes my appearance. Dark hair, dark eyes, clean-shaven with the makings of a beer belly, and a dragon tattoo on my left shoulder. My features apparently came from my father’s side. But enough about me.
My mother’s name is Helen. She is now in her late forties and her lithe body has succumbed to the effects of nearly five decades of fighting gravity. She was never a model and would not ever be mistaken for my “older sister.” But I have seen pictures of when she first captivated my dad, and to be blunt, any red-blooded male seeing those prints of her prancing half-dressed in her native Nordic land, would be hard-pressed to not spend the next few moments stretching and tugging his manhood. She was a striking young woman with girl-next-door sex appeal. Her rich auburn-blonde hair, which I beg her not to ever cut, falls in creamy sheets to the middle of her lean back. She has blue eyes as deep as the fjords, that sparkle when she smiles and crinkles at the edges with small lines that enrage her but for me, only enhance her sexy image. And the blue orbs shine like the ice fields of the old country when she is rapt in orgasmic bliss. A secret obsession of mine is that while virginal maidens have an untouched quality that older women can never get back, the more mature vixens have an experienced edge of sophistication and knowledge that younger girls are just not born with.
My mother has aged gently. The youthful flower is no longer on the rose, but she has grown to accept her weaknesses and to emphasize her remarkably sensual traits. Her strong, angular jaw with the sharp cheekbones have become sprinkled with freckles from years in the warm sun, especially across the bridge of her aristocratic nose. She says they look silly on a grown woman, I tell her that they bring out the playful side of her exotic aspect. Her features are pale but she has learned to apply make-up to match her mood, and since our discreet tryst blossomed, I have seen her as kittenish or vampy, and she can now easily seduce me with her wily charms. She fought Nişantaşı Escort her incestuous feelings as they crept in upon her, figuring that anyone is entitled to a fantasy life, as long as these deviant urges are not acted on. But when she realized the overwhelming cravings were taking hold of her and bringing on taboo lusts that threatened the very boundaries of her upbringing, she was compelled to rationalize how her pleasures were more substantial than her morality.
Helen stands about 5’7″ and has a passion for erotic footwear, that seems to be incongruent with her public demeanor. Though in the past year the standard height of her heels has gradually risen to four inches, this was a woman who was raised in hiking boots and now her closet is filled with stilettos, thigh-highs, and gladiator styles. She spends as much money on pedicures and polish as I do on hops and barley. And she wears slender jeans or seductively-slit skirts to show off her toned legs. It was possibly the sight of those long legs with the well-defined calf muscles and sturdy thighs, that first drew my attention from the woman who was my mother, to the tempting MILF that I started fantasizing about. It was subtle at first, and not originally meant for me, but now that she knows of my obvious interest, her wardrobe took a more alluring direction. When she learned the tantalizing effect that they have on me, I have been treated to her strutting around in a variety of “come fuck me” heels and, often I have felt them draped around my neck and scraping torturous grooves down the small of my back.
City life has taken its toll on the young girl who lived for the outdoors by adding inches and age lines, but it has opened -up a world of licentious seduction that she admits, she never believed possible. Now she enjoys her role and actively pursues her pleasures. One of the perks of maturity is knowing what you want and what you can get away with. And a little harmless pleasure can be shared with someone who will keep your secrets. The great thrill of fantasy is the odd possibility that it may come true.
If it wasn’t her shapely gams that announced her attractiveness to me then it was undoubtedly those D-cups. The old pictures that I’ve recently unearthed don’t show the figure that mother sports today. She was lean and athletic with those long legs and fairly broad shoulders. But there is no hint of the bodacious cleavage that she emphasizes today. Maybe she kept them tantalizingly hidden from view, waiting for some lucky American guy to discover. Or it might have been late-onset puberty. Maybe she just got a little extra help from Mother Nature. I’m tempted to believe it must be the steroids used in American meats that produced the growth spurt that developed her considerable front porch. Mom has a major league rack. She says that they were kept more subdued as I was maturing myself. She worked as a clerk in a law firm and was the first person that people noticed when they walked through the doors. Her abundant bustline was viewed as both a hindrance and distraction in the office. She was often advised to tone it down and appear more demure when clients were around, but the lawyers ogled her figure just the same and propositioned her incessantly. They liked her and respected her marital sanctity. She remained buttoned-down and bottled-up for the duration. But when my father was caught literally with his pants down, her attorney friends wrangled a settlement that granted her the house and allowed her to begin to live a life of leisure. After a few years, she began to dress more for her comfort and later, for that of her twenty three-year old son. That’s when I began to see more flesh.
At home, her big boobs were allowed to bounce a bit more freely, though she would usually wear a bra for the extra support. She often mentions that men don’t realize the back and shoulder pain that accompanies a large bust. I obligingly, would have been willing to lend a hand in their support. A young man isn’t usually at liberty to display such gallantry to a mature woman in such a setting, mother/son relations make that so convenient. I was determined to grab and hold many of my mother’s more erotic features if she would ever permit me. And the mother often is freer at home to dress casually with little thought that the prying eyes of her predatory son may be leering at her body for his own deviant desires. Her long legs were a beautiful attribute that could be admired by all. But her incredible tits were a gift that to my mind, would be unveiled only for me. That was about the time that I set a course to seduce my mom. My moral compass may have been a bit off, but my cock was like a divining-rod and she was the oasis in the desert that I was searching for.
I’m sure that she wasn’t thinking of sexually teasing me, or of any other impure thoughts like the perverted fantasies that simmered in my wayward mind. In fact she probably just regarded Pendik Escort the faintly ogling stares from me as nothing more than a son’s dutiful affection for his loving mother. But when I’d catch her trying to tan her alabaster skin in an over-stuffed bikini, or lounging around before bed in a thin tee shirt or sheer gown, I would catch an eyeful of those bountiful breasts swaying subtly and bewitchingly mere inches from my face. They were teardrop-shaped and heavy like water balloons, and just so inviting to the touch. There was more than one occurrence when I nearly had to sit on my own hand, to prevent it from reaching for those shapely mammaries. I knew even then that it was wrong, but I spent many restless nights with awkward dream scenarios of glimpsing her nude body, while yanking my severely engorged cock until I finally drifted off to sleep.
Those bodacious breasts are even fuller now and sag just a bit, and may even be a double-D, or whatever comes next. And the pink nipples jutting forth from the darker areola point more southerly than they once did, but it would take a strong-willed man (or a moron,) to not appreciate their generous proportions. In my early twenties, when my obsession intensified, those full rounded melons with deep cleavage and hypnotic bounce provided my “alone time” some very erotically taboo stimulation. Whenever she skipped down the stairs or hopped from a step stool, I would watch the figure-eight motion as her heaving breasts swayed like two cats in a sack. And any time that she leaned over; to vacuum, or to serve me supper, I felt that my neck followed the shadow of her cleavage all the way down the front of her blouse. I’m surprised that I never slobbered right down the front of her shirt. I scrupulously avoided making eye contact with her at these times, as the guilt of my incestuous thoughts was bubbling so frantically to the surface that I feared it was etched on my face.
I can’t pinpoint an exact day when my deeply crude desire for my mom’s body was no longer confined to lustful dreams and the prolonged tug and pull of my stiffened prick. I will clarify for the record, just incase St. Peter is keeping track, that I was in my twenties when these libidinous urges seriously began to take hold. But I do remember a time when my mom’s mood took a sullen, wilting turn. For weeks she was moping around the house and sitting by herself often appearing to be lost in thought. She would look sad and depressed at any time and would heave some very melancholy sighs that alarmed me. I would catch her unaware, and it was obvious that she’d been crying or would pass through some somber phases in her normal routine. I know that this sounds awful, but I still couldn’t resist sneaking illicit peeks at her curvaceous body or when she hugged me during her despondent periods, I had to fight the urge to run my hands around her cushiony ass cheeks. I certainly wished for her mental health to return to normal, and I wish I knew the answer. But my mental health was also in a state of turmoil by constantly being exposed to this erotic stimulation (just kidding,) I understood the taboo nature of the circumstance and yet I still wanted to fuck my mom!
One evening we were sitting together on the couch watching some old chick-flick romance that she liked. Since we were ready to call it a night I was wearing only gym shorts and a tee. Mom was in her nightgown, a thin cottony sheath that stretched snugly over her hips, revealing her pink panties as she sat with her legs tucked under her. The cool night air sent a slight tremor through her body and with a sideways glance, I could easily determine that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her pointy nipples threatened to pierce the thin layer of material straining to contain the perky tips. She saw me struggling to readjust the growing lump between my legs, but her real thoughts apparently were elsewhere. She smiled demurely at me but it was as if I were just another piece of furniture. Helen’s glassy eyes signaled that her attention was on something farther away, as she watched the movie. An image on the screen seemed to capture her attention and she innocently eased closer to me while lulled into a dreamy state. Her reddened, weepy blue eyes looked to me for some form of reassurance and closeness, but of course, my eyes were drawn to her chest. When I finally met her gaze, I noticed a knowing smile of the sort that I’d never seen before. I was bewildered, and the moment slipped by me.
I discerned another brief shiver so I rested an arm around her bare shoulder and soon she laid her head in my lap. Her one hand was slowly rubbing my thigh as she laid there causing tiny sparks of crude inspiration to fill my head. A funny thing happened, she kissed my thigh rather tenderly, and in the next second, laughed it off by saying that I make a comfy pillow. Then she coughed nervously and nothing more was said. I needed to remind myself that she often cuddled me during Rus Escort these moods, so I fought any untoward craving that my body would produce so that she didn’t clearly see the perverted, lecherous scoundrel that she was harboring.
And that’s how we proceeded to half-watch the remainder of the movie. As it played out, and the lonely widow in the movie discovered the unexpected “love of her life,” I noticed a few slight sniffles from mom and some warm spots on my shorts where her quiet tears were wicking into the fabric. And still I noticed that the warm circles she was drawing with her hand were continuing, and inching closer to my crotch. It had to all be in my head, so I wrenched my wicked thoughts away from me, and more closely regarded my mother. She emitted no signal other than that of a lonely and forlorn woman, safe in the midst of her only family, and possibly dwelling heavily on her future. Though I did detect a few stuttering, half-gasping breaths that often jolted her ribcage and shook her entire frame. I was too absorbed in my stupidity to notice someone else’s dilemma. She should have just kicked me! My only thought was that I wished she would either keep her hand still or move it further up my thigh.
When I asked if there was a problem she tried to hold a stoic, motherly resolve. But with only a little prodding, she revealed to me her long fear that she might never find anyone to share her feelings with. Her thoughts must have been concentrated on someone who could enrich her fantasy life, if not her actual one.
And in a truly stunning confession, she let slip that she was “still a vital woman with so much to give.” Her tears warmed my leg and I felt the flutter of her soft lips when she once more lightly kissed my thigh, then she stirred to rise.
For once, I had no ulterior motive but soothing the sorry condition of my mother’s battered psyche. If she was giving me the “bunt” sign, I futiley swung and missed. I attempted to calm her nerves and to reassure her that someone special who appreciates her fully, could be right around the corner. I absent-mindedly stroked her tear-streaked cheeks and brushed my fingers through her loose golden locks. She seemed to coo contentedly and briefly close her eyes. My hand traveled to her tense shoulders and eventually down her spine, rubbing and kneading the soft skin until I heard her take some deep breaths and utter a few throaty, purring hums.
The rigid, wounded posture of her anatomy that she used as a defense against the world, slowly melted and her body curled closer into mine. Her lithe frame relaxed and I sensed a warming tremble move through her and a soft, glistening sheen appear to radiate through her pores. Her breathing became stronger and more regular. She turned over more fully onto her belly and allowed me to rub her lower back while she nestled her face into my thigh and mumbled how good it felt to have a warm, gentle hand caress her lonely form. Her reddish-blonde locks were spread haphazardly on my lap, and I detected the slow, even rise and fall of her back as she settled-in comfortably beside me. I was taken with her total relaxation, and how easily and carefree she seemed in my casual embrace. I hadn’t even realized that her gossamer gown had ridden up past her ribcage and that I could catch a glimpse of the soft undersides of her big tits being pressed into the plush cushions, or that I was now massaging bare flesh and feeling the warmth of her delicate skin under my trembling fingers. My own body and breathing were not quite so relaxed. That aching urge was again rumbling in my loins and threatening to expose my dark intent. It wasn’t being helped by the sensual view now filling my field of vision.
Her undies had become twisted and were taut against the plump folds of her soft ass. The crotch piece was wedged uncomfortably tight into her crack and I could see the outer lips of her pink labia. I marveled at the delicate folds and was surprised that they appeared to glimmer in the soft blue light of the TV. Her firm mounds were deliciously on display. My hand nervously edged to the sexy hollow of her lower back, and I was sorely tempted to let my fingers glide just a bit lower onto her rounded cheeks. I could feel that her body was growing suddenly tense and that she was grinding her hips into the sofa.
She gyrated slowly and tried craftily to release the pressure without drawing attention to her actions. Helen twisted and small grunts escaped her lips. Her shapely rear end actually seemed to lift off the couch and wriggle under my touch.
I didn’t understand if she was desiring that I continue with my exploration, so I tentatively lifted my hand for a second to gauge her reaction. Finally, she was forced to reach back and rearrange the tangled material and to pull down the flimsy gown, apologizing profusely for giving me “a rather vulgar display of your mother’s fat ass.” I had just dodged a potentially damning moment and was quite lucky that she was on her belly and not looking directly at me. I just laughed teasingly and assured her that her sexy body would be a prize for any discerning guy. And with a naughty wink, I playfully spanked her supple buns and may have allowed my palm to linger a moment too long on the spongy mounds. Fortunately, she made no reply other than to sheepishly grin.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
İlk yorum yapan siz olun