Birthday Gift Leads To Kiss
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A Birthday Kiss free porn video
"I'd really like to give you something extra special for your birthday," said Mum. "But I don't know what."
We were in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. I had an idea what I'd like to suggest for my f******nth birthday, but I wasn't foolish enough to say it.
"Anything will be fine mum," I said, handing her a glass to put away. "I can always use some socks."
"Socks," she said.
Since I had first gotten my first hard-on, I had craved after my mother. Obsessed over her is a better word. Once a day at least, I'd lay in bed at night, cock in hand, slowly stroking myself to mental images of kissing her, undoing her bra, unbuttoning her blouse, unzipping her skirt. A thousand times I had sex with her in my fantasies. fondled her large 38D breasts, kissed the side of her neck, slipped my fingers into her dark bush of pubic hair and in to her wet pussy . . .
I coughed, and concentrated on drying the dishes.
"f******n is such a special birthday," she said, leaning back against the counter. "There has to be something you really want."
If you only knew, Mark thought.
Mum was thirty-one years old. She had dark brunette hair and I thought she was quite hot for a mother of a f******n year old boy. She stuck out pretty good up top, and she had a lovely arse.
I looked into her blue eyes and smiled. "A hug and a kiss," I said.
Laughing, she pushed away from the counter and took me by the shoulders. Mum gave me a quick kiss on my mouth, and then a tremendous hug and she backed away again. "You're too easy," she said. "Think of something else. Something special."
She stood with her hands on her hips, head cocked slightly to one side, wonderful looking in a blue checked shirt and blue jeans.
"The only special thing I wany is!!!," I said. And to my absolute amazement and horror, I told her what I did want.
She blinked. Her smile waned. "Excuse me? Did I just hear you right?"
"A kiss," I repeated. "A proper kiss, for-real kiss."
She shook her head. "What kind of present is that?"
"The perfect present mum," I said.
She was silent a moment. "You're serious? A kiss?"
"Ye, an adult kiss," I said. "The kind a man and a woman would have."
"I'm not a woman. I'm your mum," she said, and we both laughed nervously. After a pause, she went on. "Why would you want to kiss like that from your mother?"
"I have an Oedipus complex."
"Don't joke about that."
"I told you what I wanted and you can decide if it's what you want to give me. I won't be upset if you don't," I lied. "I'm f******n and i'm a big boy now."
She looked at me. "A big boy asking to make out with his mother." She crossed her arms, a classic defensive gesture. I had the feeling I'd just upset her. "Do you know how this makes me feel?" she asked.
"I don't want you to feel mad," I said. I'm just asking."
She blew air out the corner of her mouth. "Whew. This is unnerving. I never thought . . ."
"Never thought what mum?" I asked.
"Never mind."
I turned away. "Get me a shirts or something then. I don't care. An iPad would be nice."
She moved up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. "You're growing up to be an adult now, Mark.
I'm an adult. Adult's have certain responsibilities. We can't go doing things on a whim because the moment struck us. And that's what it is Mark, just a moment."
"Ok, then," I went on. "What's about a kiss between best friends?"
She smiled. "You are so full of it, mister." She sighed, and crossed her arms again.
"Okay, so say I agree. When do you want to do this?"
"My birthday's not until Wednesday," I pointed out.
"You expect me to wait till then? Worrying about my schizophrenic son? I think not, young man."
I shrugged. "What right here in the kitchen?"
"Well, it won't be up in my bedroom," she said caustically. "Right here. Right now. Or you'll get an iPad."
She didn't wait for an answer. Stepping up to me, she slid her arms around my neck, lifted her face and waited for me to kiss her. I closed my eyes and put my lips to hers and experienced the warmth and sweetness of the woman that was my mother. It lasted perhaps ten seconds and then she stepped back.
"Well?" She hadn't parted her lips, but I felt like I had French Kissed her. My heart galloped.
"Nice," I croaked. "Just nice."
"Then we're finished?" She tilted her head again.
"If it wasn't what you wanted, Mark, just tell me." She smiled grimly. "If not, we'll do it again. Can't stand to have you thinking I didn't give you what you wanted."
No one moved. No one said a word. Then, hesitantly, we closed the distance and her arms reclaimed my neck, my arms encircled her waist, I drew her hard against me, experiencing her entirely this time: the bulge of her breasts, the feel of her ribs below them, her hips where them pressed against my thighs. Her lips parted slightly and I felt the tip of her tongue.
"Mnnnnnmmmm," she moaned. Then she lurched away, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth.
"How did I get myself into this?" she croaked. Her eyes were bright and a flush had spread from her face. Her chest rose and fell sharply. I realized it wasn't the kiss that had scared her away.
"Sorry," I said sheepishly. I didn't look down and she kept her eyes safely on mine, but both of us were thinking about that bulge in my trousers.
Mum said, between labored breaths: "A mother should never do that to her son." With that she turned and walked out of the kitchen.
The next day, Monday, I got home from school and found her in the kitchen, chopping up a cucumber. The rest of the salad was on the work top, in various stages of disassembly.
"Mum, can I apologize for last night?" I asked.
"For what?" she said, non committally.
"For asking you for that sort of kiss."
The knife went whack-whack-whack on the chopping board, spitting out thin slices of carrots. "Why?" she asked.
She was dressed in shorts and a sleeveless white blouse, with an apron about her middle. I walked over and stood behind her and put my hands on her hips.
"No!" she cried, and then suddenly she was in my arms and her mouth was attacking mine, and I didn't care that somewhere behind my back a knife was waving about. I cared only for her lips, her tongue, and those big breasts against my chest.
"Mnnnnn," she moaned.
I slid my hands up her back and let my left hand drift back down until it rested at the small of her back. Her stiffening told me that it had better stay there. But she didn't break the kiss and it when it did end, we were both breathless.
"This is getting too serious, darling," she murmured.
She remained in my arms, her arms still about my neck, her forehead against my chin. Then she straightened and looked at the kitchen window, through which could be seen the school playing fields.
"You should be out there playing football with your mates," she said, nodding at the group of teenagers boys chasing after a football. "Not in here seducing your mother."
"Is that what I'm doing mum?" I asked.
"Well aren't you?" she demanded.
"I'm just trying to get a birthday kiss," I said.
"Ohh ye," she said, pushing me away. "Now get out of here so I can finish dinner."
A little after ten o'clock she appeared in my bedroom doorway. There was a book in her hand and her reading glasses were pushed up in her hair. She still wore the khaki shorts and the white blouse, although the blouse. She looked, if not depressed, then emotional. She leaned against the door frame.
"What's the matter, mum?" I asked.
"I want to talk to you, Mark."
"What about?"
"You know what about!."
"What exactly do you want from me, Mark?"
I looked down at my hands. "It's difficult to explain, Mum."
She stood straight and crossed her arms. "Do you know, that when you kissed me this afternoon, that I haven't been kissed like that for years."
I felt absurdly pleased and acutely embarrassed at the same time.
"Sorry," I murmured, feeling my face go red.
She shook her head and walked across the landing to her bedroom. Her door slamming shook the entire house.
The next day, was the day before my birthday, I came home from school to find her in the untility room, starting a load of washing. One look told me that I should go back out. I left her a note on the kitchen table saying that I'd be back for dinner and ran out to Blockbuster for a vidoe tape.
At dinner, she barely a word spoken. After we'd finished she told me that she'd do the dishes herself. In the past, ever since her and dad had split up, this was the first time we hadn't shared cleaning up duties. I went upstairs to my bedroom, feeling like I had really upset her.
"At ten o'clock. I got up, turned off the TV and paced the bedroom back and forth. At about ten-thirty I went downstairs to speak to mum.
She was on the sofa in the living room, her Stephen King novel propped against her chest, the reading glasses on her head. She was asleep.
"You are look so beautiful," I whispered.
She wore pale pink satin pajamas beneath her dressing gown. In these particular pajamas you either wore your underwear, or you might as well wear nothing at all. I sat down on the arm of the couch opposite her and just looked at her.
When I was twelve, I found an archive file on my mum's old computer that I never should have seen. It was encrypted, and although it took me a ages to crack the password, mum's name spelled backwards. I was driven by my hormones to keep with it until I won. The name of the archive was not cryptic at all: Helen Naked. Helen is my mother's name.
The archive's contents were hundreds of photos. They were images scanned from Polaroid's, and actual lab-developed photos. (I found out of mum later on that they had found a photo-processing lab in Forum magazine that developed and printed personal pictures, word unsaid. Not sight unseen, because I've also heard that thousands of pirated personal photos showed up back in the mid-to-late seventies, before digital took over the world.) There were pictures of mum all the way back to her teens, before I was born. A couple dozen, of the pictures showed her posing nude along with my Aunty Bronwen, a few years her senior.
Do you understand my obsession with photos?
"I have your photo's mum," I whispered to her. She stirred, and the book slid two inches down her chest, but she didn't awaken.
"Every one of them is on my computer," I informed her softly. "Locked up just like the day I found them, in an encrypted file." The file was no longer called Helen Naked, however.
I slid down off the couch arm and onto the cushion. She stirred again, but the book lost no further ground down her bust. I folded my legs beneath me and crossed my arms over my chest and just sat there, content to look at her.
"Darling?"
I jerked awake.
"What are you doing down there?" she asked.
My legs were asleep and so were my eyes. It took a second before they would focus on her. She stood bent over me with one hand holding the book, the over holding her reading glasses. Her robe was parted just enough to show me the swell of her white breasts. The hand with her glasses was on my shoulder.
"How long have you been down here?" she asked.
Images of of the photos of her smiling, refused to let me think. "Uh . . , ten minutes, I think."
"You were snoring," she said with a tiny grin. "You woke me up."
"I don't snore mum," I said. "It must have been the fridge in the kitchen."
"Then I'll have to get it replaced," she said, "because it's snoring too loudly."
My right calf had gone dead. I rubbed at it but it refused come alive.
"Here," mum said, and sat down beside me. Before I realized she had intentions of anything else other than massaging my calf, she had leaned in and placed her lips against mine. I leaned back against the sofa arm, stretched out with her laying on top me. Her arms went around my neck and we kissing like teenagers.
"Mnnnnn," she moaned desperately. My young cock was rock hard and she rubbed fiercely against it. She straddled me with her thighs and rode me with her pubic bone directly on my erection, her back arching and she had her tongue down my throat. I had never had any girl, react so violently to a kiss before. She tore her mouth away suddenly and her head twisted back.
She was having an orgasm.
"Oh God, Michael!" she cried out. "I love you!"
I woke up gasping.
"Who is Michael?" I said.
She was sitting bolt upright, blinking in confusion, book fallen to the floor and her glasses dangling in her hair. I must have given her a heart attack, I thought.
"I--I don't know any Michael," she stammered. Then she realized where we were and some of her confusion slipped away. She untangled her reading glasses from her hair, and then put them on the coffee table.
"What are you doing down here?" she asked.
I snapped: "Didn't we just go through this?" My hips ached hugely and I dreaded unfolding my legs.
"You shoudn't talk to me like that, I'm your mother," she said angrily.
It was half-an-hour later. We had both calmed down. I had explained everything to her: the pictures I had found, the last six months of my obsession with her.
"I honestly don't know any Michael," she said. "None that I would cry out for like i did, anyway." She touched my forearm and then rubbed it lightly. "Honestly, Mark. What are we going to do with you?"
"What are we going to do with us?" I corrected sadly.
She sighed, looked away for a moment, then up at the clock.
"Happy Birthday, darling" she said.
"What?"
She nodded at the clock. "f******n years ago, I was screaming obscenities at your father and beating him with my fists."
"What's changed?" I asked.
She laughed. "Nothing much." She placed her hand back on my forearm and rubbed it slowly up and down. Her hand left my forearm for my hair, which she ran her fingers through gently. "I just wish you hadn't found those damned pictures of me. It's amazing you haven't grown up a schizophrenic."
"Who says I haven't?" I asked.
She laughed lightly. "It would explain a lot."
She got up and walked to the table lamp and turned it off. The only illumination came from the hall. She sat down next to me and took both of my hands in hers.
"How do I reconcile this?" she asked. "Being in love with my own son?"
I just sat there, swimming in the depths of her admission. "I don't think you can," I answered finally. "No more than I can reconcile being in love with you, mum."
"But it's so wrong, Mark."
"I know that, mum."
A car passed by outside and I swear I heard every tread on the road. The rfridge in the kitchen kicked on, and roared deafeningly. The wall clock counted the seconds off tick-tick-tick, loud enough to shake the wall. We held hands and looked at each other in the moonlight.
"This can't happen again after tonight. You promise Mark" she said. looking at our hands.
I removed my right hand and slipped it carefully inside her robe. She stiffened, but she didn't resist me when I cupped her left breast. Her breathing quickened and a mild shiver ran up her spine. I moved my hand up to her shoulder and pulled aside the pajamas enough to kiss the base of her neck where it joined the shoulder. She moaned, and I kissed her on her neck and then along the top of her shoulder. A moment later my fingers located the top button holding together the front of her pajamas, and one by one I unbuttoned them. I reached inside.
"Don't darling!" she said, grabbing my hand away from her breast.
She let go and drew her robe closed around herself, clutching it together at the top with her right hand. "I'm not ready Mark," she whispered hoarsely.
But she was ready for it, I hoped. I couldn't blame her; her f******n year old son had just bared her breasts. But then she surprised me by leaning forward and finding my lips with hers and kissing me hungrily. Within seconds her lips had parted and her tongue flicked inside my mouth, searching for mine. I kissed her deeply, our tongues performing a slow dance.
"I am so aroused," she moaned when we broke the kiss. Her forehead was against mine and I felt her breath on my mouth. It came and went in shallow gasps. She squirmed, and groaned, and I could see that she was wet between her legs. It had to be a terrible embarrassment for her.
I took her hands and very deliberately placed them at her sides. I pulled apart her robe, the front of her pajamas top and pulled them down to her waist. She shuddered violently, gasped in a ragged breath, but didn't stop me. Instead, she withdrew her arms from the sleeves and put them around my neck again and we kissed. There was no resistance when I put my hand on her warm, soft breast.
She pulled my head down and placed my mouth on her nipple, which was immensely hard, and as big as the tip of my little finger. I had her against the couch arm and her robe was undone but still beneath her; I hadn't touched her pajama bottoms yet. I had however, brushed the front of her crotch and found them wet.
She moaned desperately, as though in sudden, awful pain. I raised my head and she grabbed it between her hands and dragged me up to her mouth. There was no tenderness in her kissing now, only starved, desperate hunger.
Our tongues battled to see which could farther penetrate the other's mouth. Her fingers grabbed my hair. We warred against each other as only two people in love can war.
Suddenly she forced herself flat onto the couch, dragging me down with her. She released her grip on my hair and then, extricating her own hair, forced my hands down, where they engaged in a frantic struggle to free her of her bottoms. It took an immensely long time to understand that she wanted me to rip her pajama bottoms off of her, which I did, bellowing in triumph as the thin silky material shredded in my hands. Then, not quite knowing how my cock had come free of my pants, I plunged into her and she answered with her own primal scream.
As I was so young and a virgin, I came in her in less than five seconds.
Mum orgasmed in about twenty seconds later, and then passed out.
...........................................
(I can hear alot of you saying)
This is all wrong, that's what you're saying. A mother and son should never have a sexual relationship, no matter how badly either or both may want it.
"It's just not right", you say.
Mental strain and feelings of guilt will drive them apart, probably sooner, than later. And perhaps you're right. It's too early to tell will us. But I can tell you this: We've been having a sexual relatioship together for nearly forty years now, and we're still happy.
What about the risks? Isn't it dangerous? you say. It is, but it happens. I think more often than people are willing to admit.
We were in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. I had an idea what I'd like to suggest for my f******nth birthday, but I wasn't foolish enough to say it.
"Anything will be fine mum," I said, handing her a glass to put away. "I can always use some socks."
"Socks," she said.
Since I had first gotten my first hard-on, I had craved after my mother. Obsessed over her is a better word. Once a day at least, I'd lay in bed at night, cock in hand, slowly stroking myself to mental images of kissing her, undoing her bra, unbuttoning her blouse, unzipping her skirt. A thousand times I had sex with her in my fantasies. fondled her large 38D breasts, kissed the side of her neck, slipped my fingers into her dark bush of pubic hair and in to her wet pussy . . .
I coughed, and concentrated on drying the dishes.
"f******n is such a special birthday," she said, leaning back against the counter. "There has to be something you really want."
If you only knew, Mark thought.
Mum was thirty-one years old. She had dark brunette hair and I thought she was quite hot for a mother of a f******n year old boy. She stuck out pretty good up top, and she had a lovely arse.
I looked into her blue eyes and smiled. "A hug and a kiss," I said.
Laughing, she pushed away from the counter and took me by the shoulders. Mum gave me a quick kiss on my mouth, and then a tremendous hug and she backed away again. "You're too easy," she said. "Think of something else. Something special."
She stood with her hands on her hips, head cocked slightly to one side, wonderful looking in a blue checked shirt and blue jeans.
"The only special thing I wany is!!!," I said. And to my absolute amazement and horror, I told her what I did want.
She blinked. Her smile waned. "Excuse me? Did I just hear you right?"
"A kiss," I repeated. "A proper kiss, for-real kiss."
She shook her head. "What kind of present is that?"
"The perfect present mum," I said.
She was silent a moment. "You're serious? A kiss?"
"Ye, an adult kiss," I said. "The kind a man and a woman would have."
"I'm not a woman. I'm your mum," she said, and we both laughed nervously. After a pause, she went on. "Why would you want to kiss like that from your mother?"
"I have an Oedipus complex."
"Don't joke about that."
"I told you what I wanted and you can decide if it's what you want to give me. I won't be upset if you don't," I lied. "I'm f******n and i'm a big boy now."
She looked at me. "A big boy asking to make out with his mother." She crossed her arms, a classic defensive gesture. I had the feeling I'd just upset her. "Do you know how this makes me feel?" she asked.
"I don't want you to feel mad," I said. I'm just asking."
She blew air out the corner of her mouth. "Whew. This is unnerving. I never thought . . ."
"Never thought what mum?" I asked.
"Never mind."
I turned away. "Get me a shirts or something then. I don't care. An iPad would be nice."
She moved up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. "You're growing up to be an adult now, Mark.
I'm an adult. Adult's have certain responsibilities. We can't go doing things on a whim because the moment struck us. And that's what it is Mark, just a moment."
"Ok, then," I went on. "What's about a kiss between best friends?"
She smiled. "You are so full of it, mister." She sighed, and crossed her arms again.
"Okay, so say I agree. When do you want to do this?"
"My birthday's not until Wednesday," I pointed out.
"You expect me to wait till then? Worrying about my schizophrenic son? I think not, young man."
I shrugged. "What right here in the kitchen?"
"Well, it won't be up in my bedroom," she said caustically. "Right here. Right now. Or you'll get an iPad."
She didn't wait for an answer. Stepping up to me, she slid her arms around my neck, lifted her face and waited for me to kiss her. I closed my eyes and put my lips to hers and experienced the warmth and sweetness of the woman that was my mother. It lasted perhaps ten seconds and then she stepped back.
"Well?" She hadn't parted her lips, but I felt like I had French Kissed her. My heart galloped.
"Nice," I croaked. "Just nice."
"Then we're finished?" She tilted her head again.
"If it wasn't what you wanted, Mark, just tell me." She smiled grimly. "If not, we'll do it again. Can't stand to have you thinking I didn't give you what you wanted."
No one moved. No one said a word. Then, hesitantly, we closed the distance and her arms reclaimed my neck, my arms encircled her waist, I drew her hard against me, experiencing her entirely this time: the bulge of her breasts, the feel of her ribs below them, her hips where them pressed against my thighs. Her lips parted slightly and I felt the tip of her tongue.
"Mnnnnnmmmm," she moaned. Then she lurched away, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth.
"How did I get myself into this?" she croaked. Her eyes were bright and a flush had spread from her face. Her chest rose and fell sharply. I realized it wasn't the kiss that had scared her away.
"Sorry," I said sheepishly. I didn't look down and she kept her eyes safely on mine, but both of us were thinking about that bulge in my trousers.
Mum said, between labored breaths: "A mother should never do that to her son." With that she turned and walked out of the kitchen.
The next day, Monday, I got home from school and found her in the kitchen, chopping up a cucumber. The rest of the salad was on the work top, in various stages of disassembly.
"Mum, can I apologize for last night?" I asked.
"For what?" she said, non committally.
"For asking you for that sort of kiss."
The knife went whack-whack-whack on the chopping board, spitting out thin slices of carrots. "Why?" she asked.
She was dressed in shorts and a sleeveless white blouse, with an apron about her middle. I walked over and stood behind her and put my hands on her hips.
"No!" she cried, and then suddenly she was in my arms and her mouth was attacking mine, and I didn't care that somewhere behind my back a knife was waving about. I cared only for her lips, her tongue, and those big breasts against my chest.
"Mnnnnn," she moaned.
I slid my hands up her back and let my left hand drift back down until it rested at the small of her back. Her stiffening told me that it had better stay there. But she didn't break the kiss and it when it did end, we were both breathless.
"This is getting too serious, darling," she murmured.
She remained in my arms, her arms still about my neck, her forehead against my chin. Then she straightened and looked at the kitchen window, through which could be seen the school playing fields.
"You should be out there playing football with your mates," she said, nodding at the group of teenagers boys chasing after a football. "Not in here seducing your mother."
"Is that what I'm doing mum?" I asked.
"Well aren't you?" she demanded.
"I'm just trying to get a birthday kiss," I said.
"Ohh ye," she said, pushing me away. "Now get out of here so I can finish dinner."
A little after ten o'clock she appeared in my bedroom doorway. There was a book in her hand and her reading glasses were pushed up in her hair. She still wore the khaki shorts and the white blouse, although the blouse. She looked, if not depressed, then emotional. She leaned against the door frame.
"What's the matter, mum?" I asked.
"I want to talk to you, Mark."
"What about?"
"You know what about!."
"What exactly do you want from me, Mark?"
I looked down at my hands. "It's difficult to explain, Mum."
She stood straight and crossed her arms. "Do you know, that when you kissed me this afternoon, that I haven't been kissed like that for years."
I felt absurdly pleased and acutely embarrassed at the same time.
"Sorry," I murmured, feeling my face go red.
She shook her head and walked across the landing to her bedroom. Her door slamming shook the entire house.
The next day, was the day before my birthday, I came home from school to find her in the untility room, starting a load of washing. One look told me that I should go back out. I left her a note on the kitchen table saying that I'd be back for dinner and ran out to Blockbuster for a vidoe tape.
At dinner, she barely a word spoken. After we'd finished she told me that she'd do the dishes herself. In the past, ever since her and dad had split up, this was the first time we hadn't shared cleaning up duties. I went upstairs to my bedroom, feeling like I had really upset her.
"At ten o'clock. I got up, turned off the TV and paced the bedroom back and forth. At about ten-thirty I went downstairs to speak to mum.
She was on the sofa in the living room, her Stephen King novel propped against her chest, the reading glasses on her head. She was asleep.
"You are look so beautiful," I whispered.
She wore pale pink satin pajamas beneath her dressing gown. In these particular pajamas you either wore your underwear, or you might as well wear nothing at all. I sat down on the arm of the couch opposite her and just looked at her.
When I was twelve, I found an archive file on my mum's old computer that I never should have seen. It was encrypted, and although it took me a ages to crack the password, mum's name spelled backwards. I was driven by my hormones to keep with it until I won. The name of the archive was not cryptic at all: Helen Naked. Helen is my mother's name.
The archive's contents were hundreds of photos. They were images scanned from Polaroid's, and actual lab-developed photos. (I found out of mum later on that they had found a photo-processing lab in Forum magazine that developed and printed personal pictures, word unsaid. Not sight unseen, because I've also heard that thousands of pirated personal photos showed up back in the mid-to-late seventies, before digital took over the world.) There were pictures of mum all the way back to her teens, before I was born. A couple dozen, of the pictures showed her posing nude along with my Aunty Bronwen, a few years her senior.
Do you understand my obsession with photos?
"I have your photo's mum," I whispered to her. She stirred, and the book slid two inches down her chest, but she didn't awaken.
"Every one of them is on my computer," I informed her softly. "Locked up just like the day I found them, in an encrypted file." The file was no longer called Helen Naked, however.
I slid down off the couch arm and onto the cushion. She stirred again, but the book lost no further ground down her bust. I folded my legs beneath me and crossed my arms over my chest and just sat there, content to look at her.
"Darling?"
I jerked awake.
"What are you doing down there?" she asked.
My legs were asleep and so were my eyes. It took a second before they would focus on her. She stood bent over me with one hand holding the book, the over holding her reading glasses. Her robe was parted just enough to show me the swell of her white breasts. The hand with her glasses was on my shoulder.
"How long have you been down here?" she asked.
Images of of the photos of her smiling, refused to let me think. "Uh . . , ten minutes, I think."
"You were snoring," she said with a tiny grin. "You woke me up."
"I don't snore mum," I said. "It must have been the fridge in the kitchen."
"Then I'll have to get it replaced," she said, "because it's snoring too loudly."
My right calf had gone dead. I rubbed at it but it refused come alive.
"Here," mum said, and sat down beside me. Before I realized she had intentions of anything else other than massaging my calf, she had leaned in and placed her lips against mine. I leaned back against the sofa arm, stretched out with her laying on top me. Her arms went around my neck and we kissing like teenagers.
"Mnnnnn," she moaned desperately. My young cock was rock hard and she rubbed fiercely against it. She straddled me with her thighs and rode me with her pubic bone directly on my erection, her back arching and she had her tongue down my throat. I had never had any girl, react so violently to a kiss before. She tore her mouth away suddenly and her head twisted back.
She was having an orgasm.
"Oh God, Michael!" she cried out. "I love you!"
I woke up gasping.
"Who is Michael?" I said.
She was sitting bolt upright, blinking in confusion, book fallen to the floor and her glasses dangling in her hair. I must have given her a heart attack, I thought.
"I--I don't know any Michael," she stammered. Then she realized where we were and some of her confusion slipped away. She untangled her reading glasses from her hair, and then put them on the coffee table.
"What are you doing down here?" she asked.
I snapped: "Didn't we just go through this?" My hips ached hugely and I dreaded unfolding my legs.
"You shoudn't talk to me like that, I'm your mother," she said angrily.
It was half-an-hour later. We had both calmed down. I had explained everything to her: the pictures I had found, the last six months of my obsession with her.
"I honestly don't know any Michael," she said. "None that I would cry out for like i did, anyway." She touched my forearm and then rubbed it lightly. "Honestly, Mark. What are we going to do with you?"
"What are we going to do with us?" I corrected sadly.
She sighed, looked away for a moment, then up at the clock.
"Happy Birthday, darling" she said.
"What?"
She nodded at the clock. "f******n years ago, I was screaming obscenities at your father and beating him with my fists."
"What's changed?" I asked.
She laughed. "Nothing much." She placed her hand back on my forearm and rubbed it slowly up and down. Her hand left my forearm for my hair, which she ran her fingers through gently. "I just wish you hadn't found those damned pictures of me. It's amazing you haven't grown up a schizophrenic."
"Who says I haven't?" I asked.
She laughed lightly. "It would explain a lot."
She got up and walked to the table lamp and turned it off. The only illumination came from the hall. She sat down next to me and took both of my hands in hers.
"How do I reconcile this?" she asked. "Being in love with my own son?"
I just sat there, swimming in the depths of her admission. "I don't think you can," I answered finally. "No more than I can reconcile being in love with you, mum."
"But it's so wrong, Mark."
"I know that, mum."
A car passed by outside and I swear I heard every tread on the road. The rfridge in the kitchen kicked on, and roared deafeningly. The wall clock counted the seconds off tick-tick-tick, loud enough to shake the wall. We held hands and looked at each other in the moonlight.
"This can't happen again after tonight. You promise Mark" she said. looking at our hands.
I removed my right hand and slipped it carefully inside her robe. She stiffened, but she didn't resist me when I cupped her left breast. Her breathing quickened and a mild shiver ran up her spine. I moved my hand up to her shoulder and pulled aside the pajamas enough to kiss the base of her neck where it joined the shoulder. She moaned, and I kissed her on her neck and then along the top of her shoulder. A moment later my fingers located the top button holding together the front of her pajamas, and one by one I unbuttoned them. I reached inside.
"Don't darling!" she said, grabbing my hand away from her breast.
She let go and drew her robe closed around herself, clutching it together at the top with her right hand. "I'm not ready Mark," she whispered hoarsely.
But she was ready for it, I hoped. I couldn't blame her; her f******n year old son had just bared her breasts. But then she surprised me by leaning forward and finding my lips with hers and kissing me hungrily. Within seconds her lips had parted and her tongue flicked inside my mouth, searching for mine. I kissed her deeply, our tongues performing a slow dance.
"I am so aroused," she moaned when we broke the kiss. Her forehead was against mine and I felt her breath on my mouth. It came and went in shallow gasps. She squirmed, and groaned, and I could see that she was wet between her legs. It had to be a terrible embarrassment for her.
I took her hands and very deliberately placed them at her sides. I pulled apart her robe, the front of her pajamas top and pulled them down to her waist. She shuddered violently, gasped in a ragged breath, but didn't stop me. Instead, she withdrew her arms from the sleeves and put them around my neck again and we kissed. There was no resistance when I put my hand on her warm, soft breast.
She pulled my head down and placed my mouth on her nipple, which was immensely hard, and as big as the tip of my little finger. I had her against the couch arm and her robe was undone but still beneath her; I hadn't touched her pajama bottoms yet. I had however, brushed the front of her crotch and found them wet.
She moaned desperately, as though in sudden, awful pain. I raised my head and she grabbed it between her hands and dragged me up to her mouth. There was no tenderness in her kissing now, only starved, desperate hunger.
Our tongues battled to see which could farther penetrate the other's mouth. Her fingers grabbed my hair. We warred against each other as only two people in love can war.
Suddenly she forced herself flat onto the couch, dragging me down with her. She released her grip on my hair and then, extricating her own hair, forced my hands down, where they engaged in a frantic struggle to free her of her bottoms. It took an immensely long time to understand that she wanted me to rip her pajama bottoms off of her, which I did, bellowing in triumph as the thin silky material shredded in my hands. Then, not quite knowing how my cock had come free of my pants, I plunged into her and she answered with her own primal scream.
As I was so young and a virgin, I came in her in less than five seconds.
Mum orgasmed in about twenty seconds later, and then passed out.
...........................................
(I can hear alot of you saying)
This is all wrong, that's what you're saying. A mother and son should never have a sexual relationship, no matter how badly either or both may want it.
"It's just not right", you say.
Mental strain and feelings of guilt will drive them apart, probably sooner, than later. And perhaps you're right. It's too early to tell will us. But I can tell you this: We've been having a sexual relatioship together for nearly forty years now, and we're still happy.
What about the risks? Isn't it dangerous? you say. It is, but it happens. I think more often than people are willing to admit.
Eisley
- 15.08.2020
- 18
- 0
