Nandita To Nandini
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Son And His Lovely Mom - Part 1 free porn video
Mack Margo could hardly believe the letter he was reading. It was a notification that a story he had written and had submitted to a publishing company had been accepted for publication, and that he would be sent five hundred dollars upon publication of the story that would happen within the next month.
He reread the letter a couple of times. It was simply hard to believe, but there it was in print.
Mack was only sixteen, but he had been writing for a couple of years, and he had concentrated upon a certain form and subject. All the things he wrote were erotic in nature, and they generally involved stories concerning a teenage boy and an older woman in her thirties. He went the route of submitting his stories only to publications that published erotica and that paid money to publish. After two years of writing and submitting things he had written, one of his stories had finally been accepted.; not only for publication, but for five hundred dollars! He still found it hard to believe, but the letter was tangible proof that could not be denied.
"Mom!" he called out. "Mom, you won't believe this!"
His mother came into the living room from the kitchen. "Believe what?" she asked.
"This!" he exclaimed, holding out the letter to her. "Read this. You won't believe it! I'm going to have a story published—and I'm going to get five hundred dollars for it!"
"What!" his mother's exclamation almost matched Mack's. "Let me see that. What is it, what does it say?" "Read it for yourself," Mack said, handing her the letter.
She scanned the letter, her eyes widening as she read it. Then she looked at him in wonder.
"This is amazing," she finally managed to say. "I knew you wrote and submitted things but I never thought that anything..."
She stopped short, not wanting to give him the impression that she doubted in any way his writing ability. She just smiled and wagged her head instead. "This is just great, honey," she said. They both gave out a laugh of pure joy. She instinctively hugged her son. He hugged her back, making sure he pressed his crotch between her legs and wrapped his arms around her waist. He hugged her tightly, pressing his chest upon hers. He felt her poking breasts, and his cock immediately began stiffening, growing hard. He wanted to fuck his mom so much he couldn't stand it.
She was in her mid-thirties, with long sandy-blonde hair, deep gray eyes, a fair complexion, and full pink lips. She kept herself in shape. She worked out and belonged to a health club where she exercised a number of times a week. Although she was thirty-five, she looked as if she were in her twenties. Her body was in great shape, and she was so pretty in the face. Mack had lusted for her since he had undergone puberty. He had masturbated numerous times with her in mind as he stroked his cock. To say he was in factuated with her would be an understatement.
His mother Ann had been divorced for two years. She had married young--when she was eighteen, mainly because she had gotten pregnant, but the marriage had lasted for fifteen years before she was divorced. Mack was the only c***d she and her husband had had. She worked as an ad/rep for a newspaper. She did a great deal of her work at home on the telephone and the comp. "Satyrican?" she asked, looking at the letter again
"Yeah, that's the name of the publishing company," Mack said. "They publish a number of different things, but "The Satyr" is its main publication, and that's the magazine my story will be published in."
"The Satyr?" his mom raised her brows "It sounds like a..." "What?" Mack asked.
"I don't know," she replied. "It sounds kind of..." "Erotic?" Mack said.
"Well, yeah, I guess, but it sounds rather classical too."
"It's really one of the few major magazines left that publishes erotica —and pays. What with the proliferation of the internet and e-printing," Mack explained, "there aren't many left that pay." "It says here your story "A Boy's Best Friend." Is that the title of your story?"
"Yeah. It may give the impression that it's an a****l story, but it's not."
"What is it about?" his mother asked, sitting on the sofa.
Mack sat down close beside her. "Well, in general it's a story about this boy and his relationship with an older person. Would you like to read it? I have copies of it."
"Yes, I'd like to read it very much. It must be a good story for it to be accepted for publication and for them to pay you five hundred dollars for it."
"I'll be right back. I'll go get the story. I've got copies in my room on both the comp and in print." Mack hurried to his room to get a copy.
When he reached his room, Mack went to his desk and picked up a copy of the story. He glanced at it, and then lowered his hand down to his crotch and stroked. This is going to surprise Mom, he thought. For sure. He rubbed his crotch harder. His cock was stiff and throbbing.
In a number of ways, Mack was an average sixteen-year-old boy. He was average in height and weight. There was nothing "outstanding" about his looks. He had black hair and dark eyes, which he supposed he had inherited from his dad. He wasn't what would be called good-looking, but neither was he unattractive. He didn't go to a regular school; his mom home schooled him.
By now his cock was hard as a rock; his balls tingled and throbbed. He thought about his mom, and his prick jerked. It poked a tent at his crotch. He hoped she noticed it.
He went back into the living room and sat down beside his mother. He handed her the story and moved over closer to her so that his body brushed upon hers. He made sure he spread his legs enough so that his hard-on could be clearly seen if she happened to look at his crotch.
She began reading the story, and Mack watched her face as she read. He wasn't sure what her reaction would be. The story was more than erotic; it bordered on porn. It was nothing more or less than a sex story involving a teen boy and a woman in her thirties.
He noticed his mom's face turning pink and blushing at times as she read, and she blinked her eyes a few times and raised her brows.
When she had finished reading the story, she didn't say anything. She simply gave out a wry smile and wagged her head. "Well, what do you think about it, Mom?" Mack asked.
"I don't know what to think, honey," she finally said. "It's well-written, no doubt of that, but, the story is..." "Is what?"
"It wasn't what I expected, to say the least," she gave out a small chuckle. "I didn't know that you wrote about ... well, about the subject, and the way that you wrote about it. It's an erotic story, no doubt about that. I'm just surprised, that's all." "Surprised that I write erotica?"
"Yes. I assumed that you wrote I guess what would be called regular writing, regular stories. Is this all that you write? I mean, do you write other kinds of stories, other types?"
"No. This is the only kind of story I write. When I first started writing, I tried writing other kinds of stories, 'regular' type stories as you say. But I found pretty soon that this is the only kind of story I like to write."
She looked at her son quizzically. "You're a good writer, no doubt about that. And you have quite an imagination." She chuckled again. "How do you come by it? I mean, where do your ideas come from? I mean, you're sixteen, but you write like you're, I don't know, twenty-six? I'm assuming that this story is made-up, that it came out of your head, that you didn't really experience it." "How do you know I didn't experience it?" he asked.
She gave out a small laugh and wagged her head. "Well, honey, for one thing, you don't know any older women—I mean like the character in the story. Do you? You haven't experienced anything like that, have you?" "No, I've never experienced it."
"Well, that's what I'm getting at," she said. "I don't understand how you can write about a subject like this so ... realistically, when you haven't experienced anything like it. I guess you just let your imagination go, right?"
"Yeah, that's mainly it," he replied. "But it took a lot of work, you know. In writing, imagining something is really just the first step. After imagining something, you have to write it, and that's where the work really comes in. I spent over a month on this story—writing it, and then rewriting it, and revising it, and then revising it again." He looked into her eyes. "Are you upset about it? I mean, does it bother you that I write stories like this? Does it bother you that I imagine things like this, and think about them?"
"No, honey, it doesn't bother me," she replied. "I mean, you're sixteen, you've been writing for over two years, and you have a vivid imagination, and you're talented, no doubt of that. I just wonder why you write only so-called erotic stories. Why you're only interested in those types of stories."
He shrugged. "They're the most interesting kind of stories for me—to both read and write. They interest me the most. So I spend my time with them. I'm not that interested in any other kind of stories."
"Well, you know, far be it from me to tell you what you should read or write—or, for that matter, to imagine, or to think about. I know that you're intelligent and well read, and it's obvious you're a good writer. So, it doesn't bother me or upset me in any way. I just hope that you don't limit yourself to one certain kind or type of writing—or reading. But I'm not going to order you to read or write other things. I mean, when it comes to your free time, you know. Schooling is a different matter, of course."
"I know that, Mom. All the so-called erotic stories that I write and read, I do on my own—separate from any schoolwork. You know I'm a good student."
"You're an A student, honey, I'm not concerned at all about that." "Let me ask you a question, Mom. Is this story the first erotic story you've read?"
"No. I've read other erotic works. Mainly novels, but what would be called erotic literature, I guess you could say. Mainstream erotic literature. But I haven't read many erotic short stories, and I certainly haven't read anything like your story." She chuckled.
"I have a number of other stories I've written," he said. "Would you like to read them? It would help me if you did. It would help if I could get an opinion about them, about their merit or lack of."
"Well, sure, honey, I'll read them. Are they all so-called erotic? Like this story?"
"They're all different. I mean, they're all about different characters and situations. It would really help me, Mom, if you would read them, and tell me what you think about them. It would help me in maybe revising them and improving the stories and my writing, and, who knows, maybe help me get some more published, and make more money—like this five hundred dollars."
He appealed to his Mom as if he were interested in improving his writing, but actually, his purpose was only to get her to read the stories, and—his imagination told him—get her 'into the groove" so to speak of his own mind and imagination, and if possible even turn her on—not only to the idea of sex in general, but sex with him. "Can I ask you a favor, Mom?" he asked. "Sure, honey," she replied.
"Can we celebrate this—my getting published and the five hundred dollars, and all? I mean, celebrate here—just a little celebration—like maybe sharing a glass of champagne."
She laughed outright. "Well, honey, I think champagne is out, but, I do have some wine."
"I know you do," he replied. "Oh you do, do you?" she chuckled. "Sure, Mom, I know."
"Well, I don't see why not," she said. "After all, this really does call for a celebration. You've become not only a published professional writer, but you've made a goodly sum of money from it. So I think this calls for a little celebration. I'll go get us a couple of glasses and open up the bottle. But, mind you, only a couple of glasses of wine." He watched her as she got up and walked toward the kitchen.
He rubbed his crotch. His dick was hard. His mom was so nice-looking; it was hard to believe she was in her mid-thirties. She looked as if she was in her mid-twenties. She resembled a young Ann Margaret or Kathleen Turner. It was hard to decide whom she looked like. She even resembled Cameron Diaz and Nicole k**man. It was hard to determine. She was dressed in a short tight skirt and tight silk blouse. Her long sandy-blonde hair almost reached to her waist. Her breasts thrust against the blouse she was wearing. He didn't know if it was the bra she was wearing or not, but there were points to it that made it look as if it were her nipples that pointed out. She was so curvy and shapely. Her hips were flared, and her rump filled up the skirt from behind. It was big and rounded and up thrusted. Her face was so pretty. That was a common term, he knew, but it was the best term to describe her face. Overall, she was so sexy and lovely and pretty. He rubbed his crotch up and down as she was gone from the room. He wanted to fuck her so much; he was going crazy from the feeling. His prick was at its full length and thickness and stiffness. He had a good-sized cock; it was seven inches long when hard, and thick too. He kept rubbing it as she was gone from the room.
When he heard her returning from the kitchen, he dropped his hand off his crotch. But he knew his hard-on could clearly be seen. His dick poked at his pants. It formed a tent sticking out from his crotch.
His mother returned with two glasses filled with wine. She set them on the coffee table before the sofa and sat down beside her son.
He looked at her bare legs; Her short skirt had ridden up somewhat so he could see most of her legs. They were lovely and shapely. His prick jerked in his pants. He checked out her chest. He could see the outline of her bra through the tight silk blouse she wore. His cock was rock-hard; it throbbed and ached. His balls were full and tingling. Her sandy blonde hair fell in shimmering waves past her shoulders reaching almost to her waist. He didn't know how long he could stand this. He was going to have to do something; he just didn't know exactly what.
She handed a glass of wine to him and picked up the other, and tapped his glass with hers.
"Congratulations to you, honey," she said. "on becoming a published professional writer, and on receiving your first payment. This is really a special occasion. You deserve it."
They drank wine for a bit, and then she went to the stereo and turned on some music. They sat and drank wine, just talking of inconsequential things.
After a little while, she excused herself and went to the bathroom. Mack used her absence to go to the kitchen and refill their wine glasses and set them back on the coffee table as if othing had happened. When she returned she seemed not to notice that he had refilled the glasses.
"Mom, would you read another story of mine? He asked. "It's shorter than the first one. It's only a couple thousand words long. I'd really like to hear your opinion of it. I'm not really sure about the ending of it; if it works or not."
"Sure, honey, I'll read it." she replied, sipping on the wine. Mack could tell she was getting a bit tipsy. He intended to make her even more so.
He went to his room and got the story and brought it back. As she was reading it, he took both the glasses to the kitchen and refilled them, and brought back some napkins.
She seemed to have forgotten the amount of wine they were drinking. She had drunk three glasses, and when she looked at the coffee table there was a fourth glass full to the brim.
She finished reading the story, which was a short tale about a sixteen-year-old male who had sex with his mid-thirties aunt. She chuckled and wagged her head.
"Your stories are so..." she began and then halted. "So what?" Mack asked.
"They're short but they're complete," she said. "Basically, they strive for a single effect, which they achieve. This last story, for example, looking at it from a purely literary point of view, is very well written, and there's nothing in the story that's unnecessary. Everything in the story works toward an end, which is achieved satisfactorily. The only problem I have with it is the subject matter." She took a gulp of wine from the glass.
"What's wrong with the subject matter?" Mack asked.
"Well, honey, to put it bluntly, it's about i****t. It's a story about an aunt and a nephew ... uh—about them..." "Having sex?" Mack asked.
She took another gulp of wine. "Yes, basically, that's what it's about. I'm not saying it's a badly written story. On the contrary, it's very well written. It's just that the subject-matter is so limited ... and so..." "Erotic?" her son asked.
"Well yes, it's that too," she replied. "But do you understand what I'm saying? In the overall readership, erotica is maybe the most limited form there is."
"I understand that, Mom. But I don't care if it's limited. It's what I want to write—and read."
A thought suddenly popped into his head of how he could touch and rub her, with it looking totally accidental. He immediately acted on the thought.
He leaned over and "accidentally" spilled some wine on her leg.
"Oh wow, I'm sorry, Mom," he said, and grabbed some napkins from the coffee table and swiped her leg with them. He stroked the napkins up and down on her leg, making sure his hand touched and rubbed the bare skin.
"No problem, honey," she said. "Accidents will happen. But I think we've—you—have had enough wine."
"Let me just wipe all this up." he replied. He continued to swipe the napkins as his hand stroked up and down, touching and rubbing her upper leg. His cock was stone hard, throbbing and aching. His lovely mom was sprawled back on the sofa, her legs slightly spread, and her skirt ridden up almost to her thighs. His heart was thudding, and he was breathing hard. This is the time to try it, he thought. Now is the time.
He moved over and slid between her legs and began rubbing up and down, He thrust his crotch on hers, hunching his hard dick. He clutched her hips and lowered his head to her chest and pressed his face on one of her mounds.
His mother's initial reaction was one of total surprise and disbelief. The last thing in the world she had expected was for her son to move atop her and begin hunching her between her legs. She had noticed the stiff full bulge at his crotch, and knew he had a full-blown hard-on, but it hadn't really shocked her, or caused her any real uneasiness. But his actual movements and his hunching on her did shock her. She was at a loss for an instant. But then, after the initial surprise and amazement, and the realization of what was happening set in, she grabbed him by his shoulders and shoved and moved her body away. He clutched at her, trying to stay between her legs. She felt the fullness of his stiff thick prick pressing and rubbing on her crotch, and his face moving up and down on her chest. "No!" she exclaimed. No. Stop it!"
But he wouldn't stop. He raked her skirt up and tugged down on her panties. He was fully determined to fuck her.
She heaved her body up and moved sideways. He fell over on his side, and she quickly dislodged herself and got up off the sofa and trotted from the room toward the hall that led to her bedroom.
For a moment, Mack lay on the sofa, debating whether to follow her. Something told him it would be best not to do so. It was clearly apparent to him that she was not going to allow him to fuck her without a struggle, and he wasn't at all sure he would win the struggle. So he sprawled on the sofa and stroked his crotch. For a moment he let his imagination go and even thought that she might return. But after a few minutes, he realized that that was not going to happen. Eventually, he went to his room and stripped and lay on the bed and stroked his cock, thinking about his mother. He reached over to the nightstand by the bed and grabbed some tissues and rubbed his dick up and down fast and hard till the cum erupted up his prick. He imagined he was squirting it deep in his mom's pussy...
He reread the letter a couple of times. It was simply hard to believe, but there it was in print.
Mack was only sixteen, but he had been writing for a couple of years, and he had concentrated upon a certain form and subject. All the things he wrote were erotic in nature, and they generally involved stories concerning a teenage boy and an older woman in her thirties. He went the route of submitting his stories only to publications that published erotica and that paid money to publish. After two years of writing and submitting things he had written, one of his stories had finally been accepted.; not only for publication, but for five hundred dollars! He still found it hard to believe, but the letter was tangible proof that could not be denied.
"Mom!" he called out. "Mom, you won't believe this!"
His mother came into the living room from the kitchen. "Believe what?" she asked.
"This!" he exclaimed, holding out the letter to her. "Read this. You won't believe it! I'm going to have a story published—and I'm going to get five hundred dollars for it!"
"What!" his mother's exclamation almost matched Mack's. "Let me see that. What is it, what does it say?" "Read it for yourself," Mack said, handing her the letter.
She scanned the letter, her eyes widening as she read it. Then she looked at him in wonder.
"This is amazing," she finally managed to say. "I knew you wrote and submitted things but I never thought that anything..."
She stopped short, not wanting to give him the impression that she doubted in any way his writing ability. She just smiled and wagged her head instead. "This is just great, honey," she said. They both gave out a laugh of pure joy. She instinctively hugged her son. He hugged her back, making sure he pressed his crotch between her legs and wrapped his arms around her waist. He hugged her tightly, pressing his chest upon hers. He felt her poking breasts, and his cock immediately began stiffening, growing hard. He wanted to fuck his mom so much he couldn't stand it.
She was in her mid-thirties, with long sandy-blonde hair, deep gray eyes, a fair complexion, and full pink lips. She kept herself in shape. She worked out and belonged to a health club where she exercised a number of times a week. Although she was thirty-five, she looked as if she were in her twenties. Her body was in great shape, and she was so pretty in the face. Mack had lusted for her since he had undergone puberty. He had masturbated numerous times with her in mind as he stroked his cock. To say he was in factuated with her would be an understatement.
His mother Ann had been divorced for two years. She had married young--when she was eighteen, mainly because she had gotten pregnant, but the marriage had lasted for fifteen years before she was divorced. Mack was the only c***d she and her husband had had. She worked as an ad/rep for a newspaper. She did a great deal of her work at home on the telephone and the comp. "Satyrican?" she asked, looking at the letter again
"Yeah, that's the name of the publishing company," Mack said. "They publish a number of different things, but "The Satyr" is its main publication, and that's the magazine my story will be published in."
"The Satyr?" his mom raised her brows "It sounds like a..." "What?" Mack asked.
"I don't know," she replied. "It sounds kind of..." "Erotic?" Mack said.
"Well, yeah, I guess, but it sounds rather classical too."
"It's really one of the few major magazines left that publishes erotica —and pays. What with the proliferation of the internet and e-printing," Mack explained, "there aren't many left that pay." "It says here your story "A Boy's Best Friend." Is that the title of your story?"
"Yeah. It may give the impression that it's an a****l story, but it's not."
"What is it about?" his mother asked, sitting on the sofa.
Mack sat down close beside her. "Well, in general it's a story about this boy and his relationship with an older person. Would you like to read it? I have copies of it."
"Yes, I'd like to read it very much. It must be a good story for it to be accepted for publication and for them to pay you five hundred dollars for it."
"I'll be right back. I'll go get the story. I've got copies in my room on both the comp and in print." Mack hurried to his room to get a copy.
When he reached his room, Mack went to his desk and picked up a copy of the story. He glanced at it, and then lowered his hand down to his crotch and stroked. This is going to surprise Mom, he thought. For sure. He rubbed his crotch harder. His cock was stiff and throbbing.
In a number of ways, Mack was an average sixteen-year-old boy. He was average in height and weight. There was nothing "outstanding" about his looks. He had black hair and dark eyes, which he supposed he had inherited from his dad. He wasn't what would be called good-looking, but neither was he unattractive. He didn't go to a regular school; his mom home schooled him.
By now his cock was hard as a rock; his balls tingled and throbbed. He thought about his mom, and his prick jerked. It poked a tent at his crotch. He hoped she noticed it.
He went back into the living room and sat down beside his mother. He handed her the story and moved over closer to her so that his body brushed upon hers. He made sure he spread his legs enough so that his hard-on could be clearly seen if she happened to look at his crotch.
She began reading the story, and Mack watched her face as she read. He wasn't sure what her reaction would be. The story was more than erotic; it bordered on porn. It was nothing more or less than a sex story involving a teen boy and a woman in her thirties.
He noticed his mom's face turning pink and blushing at times as she read, and she blinked her eyes a few times and raised her brows.
When she had finished reading the story, she didn't say anything. She simply gave out a wry smile and wagged her head. "Well, what do you think about it, Mom?" Mack asked.
"I don't know what to think, honey," she finally said. "It's well-written, no doubt of that, but, the story is..." "Is what?"
"It wasn't what I expected, to say the least," she gave out a small chuckle. "I didn't know that you wrote about ... well, about the subject, and the way that you wrote about it. It's an erotic story, no doubt about that. I'm just surprised, that's all." "Surprised that I write erotica?"
"Yes. I assumed that you wrote I guess what would be called regular writing, regular stories. Is this all that you write? I mean, do you write other kinds of stories, other types?"
"No. This is the only kind of story I write. When I first started writing, I tried writing other kinds of stories, 'regular' type stories as you say. But I found pretty soon that this is the only kind of story I like to write."
She looked at her son quizzically. "You're a good writer, no doubt about that. And you have quite an imagination." She chuckled again. "How do you come by it? I mean, where do your ideas come from? I mean, you're sixteen, but you write like you're, I don't know, twenty-six? I'm assuming that this story is made-up, that it came out of your head, that you didn't really experience it." "How do you know I didn't experience it?" he asked.
She gave out a small laugh and wagged her head. "Well, honey, for one thing, you don't know any older women—I mean like the character in the story. Do you? You haven't experienced anything like that, have you?" "No, I've never experienced it."
"Well, that's what I'm getting at," she said. "I don't understand how you can write about a subject like this so ... realistically, when you haven't experienced anything like it. I guess you just let your imagination go, right?"
"Yeah, that's mainly it," he replied. "But it took a lot of work, you know. In writing, imagining something is really just the first step. After imagining something, you have to write it, and that's where the work really comes in. I spent over a month on this story—writing it, and then rewriting it, and revising it, and then revising it again." He looked into her eyes. "Are you upset about it? I mean, does it bother you that I write stories like this? Does it bother you that I imagine things like this, and think about them?"
"No, honey, it doesn't bother me," she replied. "I mean, you're sixteen, you've been writing for over two years, and you have a vivid imagination, and you're talented, no doubt of that. I just wonder why you write only so-called erotic stories. Why you're only interested in those types of stories."
He shrugged. "They're the most interesting kind of stories for me—to both read and write. They interest me the most. So I spend my time with them. I'm not that interested in any other kind of stories."
"Well, you know, far be it from me to tell you what you should read or write—or, for that matter, to imagine, or to think about. I know that you're intelligent and well read, and it's obvious you're a good writer. So, it doesn't bother me or upset me in any way. I just hope that you don't limit yourself to one certain kind or type of writing—or reading. But I'm not going to order you to read or write other things. I mean, when it comes to your free time, you know. Schooling is a different matter, of course."
"I know that, Mom. All the so-called erotic stories that I write and read, I do on my own—separate from any schoolwork. You know I'm a good student."
"You're an A student, honey, I'm not concerned at all about that." "Let me ask you a question, Mom. Is this story the first erotic story you've read?"
"No. I've read other erotic works. Mainly novels, but what would be called erotic literature, I guess you could say. Mainstream erotic literature. But I haven't read many erotic short stories, and I certainly haven't read anything like your story." She chuckled.
"I have a number of other stories I've written," he said. "Would you like to read them? It would help me if you did. It would help if I could get an opinion about them, about their merit or lack of."
"Well, sure, honey, I'll read them. Are they all so-called erotic? Like this story?"
"They're all different. I mean, they're all about different characters and situations. It would really help me, Mom, if you would read them, and tell me what you think about them. It would help me in maybe revising them and improving the stories and my writing, and, who knows, maybe help me get some more published, and make more money—like this five hundred dollars."
He appealed to his Mom as if he were interested in improving his writing, but actually, his purpose was only to get her to read the stories, and—his imagination told him—get her 'into the groove" so to speak of his own mind and imagination, and if possible even turn her on—not only to the idea of sex in general, but sex with him. "Can I ask you a favor, Mom?" he asked. "Sure, honey," she replied.
"Can we celebrate this—my getting published and the five hundred dollars, and all? I mean, celebrate here—just a little celebration—like maybe sharing a glass of champagne."
She laughed outright. "Well, honey, I think champagne is out, but, I do have some wine."
"I know you do," he replied. "Oh you do, do you?" she chuckled. "Sure, Mom, I know."
"Well, I don't see why not," she said. "After all, this really does call for a celebration. You've become not only a published professional writer, but you've made a goodly sum of money from it. So I think this calls for a little celebration. I'll go get us a couple of glasses and open up the bottle. But, mind you, only a couple of glasses of wine." He watched her as she got up and walked toward the kitchen.
He rubbed his crotch. His dick was hard. His mom was so nice-looking; it was hard to believe she was in her mid-thirties. She looked as if she was in her mid-twenties. She resembled a young Ann Margaret or Kathleen Turner. It was hard to decide whom she looked like. She even resembled Cameron Diaz and Nicole k**man. It was hard to determine. She was dressed in a short tight skirt and tight silk blouse. Her long sandy-blonde hair almost reached to her waist. Her breasts thrust against the blouse she was wearing. He didn't know if it was the bra she was wearing or not, but there were points to it that made it look as if it were her nipples that pointed out. She was so curvy and shapely. Her hips were flared, and her rump filled up the skirt from behind. It was big and rounded and up thrusted. Her face was so pretty. That was a common term, he knew, but it was the best term to describe her face. Overall, she was so sexy and lovely and pretty. He rubbed his crotch up and down as she was gone from the room. He wanted to fuck her so much; he was going crazy from the feeling. His prick was at its full length and thickness and stiffness. He had a good-sized cock; it was seven inches long when hard, and thick too. He kept rubbing it as she was gone from the room.
When he heard her returning from the kitchen, he dropped his hand off his crotch. But he knew his hard-on could clearly be seen. His dick poked at his pants. It formed a tent sticking out from his crotch.
His mother returned with two glasses filled with wine. She set them on the coffee table before the sofa and sat down beside her son.
He looked at her bare legs; Her short skirt had ridden up somewhat so he could see most of her legs. They were lovely and shapely. His prick jerked in his pants. He checked out her chest. He could see the outline of her bra through the tight silk blouse she wore. His cock was rock-hard; it throbbed and ached. His balls were full and tingling. Her sandy blonde hair fell in shimmering waves past her shoulders reaching almost to her waist. He didn't know how long he could stand this. He was going to have to do something; he just didn't know exactly what.
She handed a glass of wine to him and picked up the other, and tapped his glass with hers.
"Congratulations to you, honey," she said. "on becoming a published professional writer, and on receiving your first payment. This is really a special occasion. You deserve it."
They drank wine for a bit, and then she went to the stereo and turned on some music. They sat and drank wine, just talking of inconsequential things.
After a little while, she excused herself and went to the bathroom. Mack used her absence to go to the kitchen and refill their wine glasses and set them back on the coffee table as if othing had happened. When she returned she seemed not to notice that he had refilled the glasses.
"Mom, would you read another story of mine? He asked. "It's shorter than the first one. It's only a couple thousand words long. I'd really like to hear your opinion of it. I'm not really sure about the ending of it; if it works or not."
"Sure, honey, I'll read it." she replied, sipping on the wine. Mack could tell she was getting a bit tipsy. He intended to make her even more so.
He went to his room and got the story and brought it back. As she was reading it, he took both the glasses to the kitchen and refilled them, and brought back some napkins.
She seemed to have forgotten the amount of wine they were drinking. She had drunk three glasses, and when she looked at the coffee table there was a fourth glass full to the brim.
She finished reading the story, which was a short tale about a sixteen-year-old male who had sex with his mid-thirties aunt. She chuckled and wagged her head.
"Your stories are so..." she began and then halted. "So what?" Mack asked.
"They're short but they're complete," she said. "Basically, they strive for a single effect, which they achieve. This last story, for example, looking at it from a purely literary point of view, is very well written, and there's nothing in the story that's unnecessary. Everything in the story works toward an end, which is achieved satisfactorily. The only problem I have with it is the subject matter." She took a gulp of wine from the glass.
"What's wrong with the subject matter?" Mack asked.
"Well, honey, to put it bluntly, it's about i****t. It's a story about an aunt and a nephew ... uh—about them..." "Having sex?" Mack asked.
She took another gulp of wine. "Yes, basically, that's what it's about. I'm not saying it's a badly written story. On the contrary, it's very well written. It's just that the subject-matter is so limited ... and so..." "Erotic?" her son asked.
"Well yes, it's that too," she replied. "But do you understand what I'm saying? In the overall readership, erotica is maybe the most limited form there is."
"I understand that, Mom. But I don't care if it's limited. It's what I want to write—and read."
A thought suddenly popped into his head of how he could touch and rub her, with it looking totally accidental. He immediately acted on the thought.
He leaned over and "accidentally" spilled some wine on her leg.
"Oh wow, I'm sorry, Mom," he said, and grabbed some napkins from the coffee table and swiped her leg with them. He stroked the napkins up and down on her leg, making sure his hand touched and rubbed the bare skin.
"No problem, honey," she said. "Accidents will happen. But I think we've—you—have had enough wine."
"Let me just wipe all this up." he replied. He continued to swipe the napkins as his hand stroked up and down, touching and rubbing her upper leg. His cock was stone hard, throbbing and aching. His lovely mom was sprawled back on the sofa, her legs slightly spread, and her skirt ridden up almost to her thighs. His heart was thudding, and he was breathing hard. This is the time to try it, he thought. Now is the time.
He moved over and slid between her legs and began rubbing up and down, He thrust his crotch on hers, hunching his hard dick. He clutched her hips and lowered his head to her chest and pressed his face on one of her mounds.
His mother's initial reaction was one of total surprise and disbelief. The last thing in the world she had expected was for her son to move atop her and begin hunching her between her legs. She had noticed the stiff full bulge at his crotch, and knew he had a full-blown hard-on, but it hadn't really shocked her, or caused her any real uneasiness. But his actual movements and his hunching on her did shock her. She was at a loss for an instant. But then, after the initial surprise and amazement, and the realization of what was happening set in, she grabbed him by his shoulders and shoved and moved her body away. He clutched at her, trying to stay between her legs. She felt the fullness of his stiff thick prick pressing and rubbing on her crotch, and his face moving up and down on her chest. "No!" she exclaimed. No. Stop it!"
But he wouldn't stop. He raked her skirt up and tugged down on her panties. He was fully determined to fuck her.
She heaved her body up and moved sideways. He fell over on his side, and she quickly dislodged herself and got up off the sofa and trotted from the room toward the hall that led to her bedroom.
For a moment, Mack lay on the sofa, debating whether to follow her. Something told him it would be best not to do so. It was clearly apparent to him that she was not going to allow him to fuck her without a struggle, and he wasn't at all sure he would win the struggle. So he sprawled on the sofa and stroked his crotch. For a moment he let his imagination go and even thought that she might return. But after a few minutes, he realized that that was not going to happen. Eventually, he went to his room and stripped and lay on the bed and stroked his cock, thinking about his mother. He reached over to the nightstand by the bed and grabbed some tissues and rubbed his dick up and down fast and hard till the cum erupted up his prick. He imagined he was squirting it deep in his mom's pussy...
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