I didn't see Mother for a month or two after the events I described in my previous tale. This gap in time left much of what had happened between us 'hanging in the air', so to speak. It was not initially deliberate on my part (work suddenly made a lot of calls on my time), but after a few weeks I began to find myself reluctant to contact mother again. To be honest, I didn't know what to say to her. I still felt very guilty about what I had done, and a deep sense of shame was growing in my mind. I suppose I felt that if I suggested a visit, she might perceive this as a desire for another 'lustful' experience (which it may well have been!).
In the end my growing reluctance to face what happened was ended by mother herself, who rang me up and asked me to visit her for the weekend. She sounded quite normal and untroubled, almost as if nothing had happened. She asked me, in a matter-of-fact way, if I would come down that weekend, or a weekend soon, as she wanted to get my advice on something. Nervously I agreed, no longer sure what to say to her. In fact I was embarrassed even speaking to her ... which may seem strange, but then I had effectively raped her the last time we met! I had forced her face down onto my cock and cum in her mouth, and such behaviour is not always conducive to good relations ... especially with your own mother!
It's strange I supposed, I was quite happy to forcibly and brutally fuck her face, but quite unable to say no to her request for a visit, but then relationships with parents are always odd at the best of times. There are flows of 'power' between parents and children that work both ways. We begin as obedient children to our all-powerful parents, and end up as powerful protectors to our weakening and increasingly guilty parents. It is as if the whole relationship reverses over time. Which is reasonable I suppose, as parents get back from their children whatever good or bad things they invested in their upbringing. My mother's overt sexuality around her son, for example, ended up giving her an unwanted mouthful of cum!
I say 'unwanted', but that may not be true. I suppose my biggest worry in seeing her again was my uncertainty in regard to whether what I had done was an outrage or an exciting outcome ... from her perspective that is. There were times during that night when I had definitely felt I was doing what she wanted me to do, but there were also times when I felt like a callous rapist. And if I am honest, one of the things that worried me most was that somewhere deep inside me I enjoyed feeling that way. I had tasted an unfamiliar power, but one that was dangerously seductive. For many nights after that weekend I had masturbated to fantasies of sexually dominating my mother ... of taking what I wanted with no thought for her welfare. But fantasy and reality are two very different things, and the prospect of facing her after what I had done to her scared me shitless! But in the event she had called me and I had to go. I guess that in reality I was in her power, and not she in mine. But then ... I kinda liked that idea too!
II
As before I arrived at her cottage late on the Friday night. But this time it wasn't raining. The night was clear, with the last traces of a red and yellow sunset still hanging mistily in the western sky. It was warm, humid almost, but the quiet calmness of the evening was not reflected inside my head.
I pulled up outside the front door, turned off the engine and sat there for a moment. I started to wonder how mother would be dressed. It suddenly seemed unreasonably important, and I thought about it for a long moment. If she was dressed similarly to the way she had been at the start of my last visit (and indeed all my previous visits), then it would mean that what had occurred last time was an aberration. On the other hand ...
The front door opened as I got out the car and she strode confidently out to meet me. Her honey-and-white hair was down on her shoulders, and she was dressed in a smart, business-like, two piece serge suit.. The jacket was buttoned down the front with the top button undone. She appeared not to be wearing a blouse under the jacket. The skirt was cut to just above the knee, and her legs were encased in smoky black tights (or stockings?). On her feet she wore back shoes with high stiletto heels.
The whole outfit was smartly tailored, and she gave a strong and entirely confident impression. She was like some powerful politician or business woman, totally in control of everything in her world. The image she projected managed to frighten and excite me, both at the same time, and for a long moment I simply didn't know what to do or say. Dimly, however, I was aware that she was answering the unspoken question that had occurred to me in the car. Clearly everything had changed.
She walked up and gave me a motherly peck on the cheek.
"Hello dear," she coed at me. "How are you ... well I trust?"
I smiled shyly. "Fine thanks Mum."
After unpacking my bits and pieces I came into the lounge to find that mother had prepared a small salad meal for us. She had also open a bottle of white wine. We ate in a slightly uncomfortable silence. Afterwards I cleared and she washed up, and then we settled back in the lounge chairs. She poured me a second glass of wine.
"I must admit John," She began, sipping her wine "that I was quite concerned about you after your last visit."
I felt a sinking feeling deep inside.
"I ... I'm so sorry about ..."
"Oh for God's sake shut up and let me finish!." She interrupted. "Will you please stop worrying and let me explain. It is precisely this reaction that concerns me so much."
I fell silent but kept my eyes down to the floor. I was, to put it mildly, embarrassed and confused.
"OK," she went on. "How can I put this?" She thought for a moment. "I have given a great deal of thought to sex in my life." She smiled a sudden shy smile. "Er, I mean to sexuality ... not that I haven't also thought about ... oh never mind!"
She took a deep breath and tried again.
"Almost everyone is a product of their initial sexual experiences. What excites us the earliest always manages to excite us the most ... especially if that experience has strong emotional components. Children that are abused, for example, often become abusers themselves. Links are made in our sexual minds that we have little or no conscious control over. Obviously we can and should control what we do ... but it is almost impossible to control what excites us. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
I just nodded, still with no clear idea where all this was going.
"Don't get me wrong, I am not for one moment tying to justify sexual abuse, especially of children. It is wholly wrong. But the effects on the abused child are more problematic than we often admit. The path to sexual maturity, as with the paths to emotional and intellectual maturity, is strewn with problems and pitfalls. All kinds of difficulties can emerge as the result of circumstance, and often these difficulties can blight our whole lives."
"You're talking about my incest fantasies?" I whispered very softly, still looking at the floor.
"Yes, sort of ..." she said, "but not quite in the way you mean."
She reached over, lifted my head up, and looked in my eyes.
"Just listen to me for a while." She said. "And stop, just for a moment applying it all to yourself in this judgmental way. Everybody, repeat EVERYBODY has some kind of sexual hangup. You're no different to anyone else."
I smiled thinly but said nothing.
"Most men initiate sexual activity in relationships," she went on. "They are the positive pole, the active partner. The 'Yan' if you like to the female 'Yin' ... or is it the other way round?. Anyway, as a result their sexual energies are strong and powerful, and can be, if they wish, sublimated to other causes ... nobler causes if you like. But sometimes this positivity can be blocked."
I looked at her, and the confusion that was obvious in my eyes made her smile.
"Hang on a moment," she laughed "and you'll see where I'm going with this."
Again I gave the thin smile.
"OK, let me take you as an example of what I'm trying to say. It may be easier that way."
She sat back in the chair and thought for a moment. "As I explained before, your father liked his women to be overtly sexual in nature. He liked his games and fantasies ... which is fine. But the problem was combing this with the appropriate raising of children. Somewhere along the line, probably because of something I inadvertently said or did, your normal Oedipal urges were reinforced by my implicit sexual acting and dressing. If you like, we got too close physically. This had a detrimental affect on you and prevented you attaching your normal sexual drives to someone outside the family, so to speak. I'm sorry if this all sounds a bit too Freudian."
"Go on" I murmured, intrigued by what she was saying.
"To cut to the chase, the problem you have is not the one you think you have. You think that fantasising about fucking your mother is an awful sin ... and doing it ten times worse. Well it's not!" She stopped for a while, pursing her lips as if searching for the right words. "Incest is a sin because inbreeding is dangerous to the offspring of such a union. Traditionally it was a simple taboo that prevented people harming themselves and their families. But in the modern world we can replace such instinctive taboos with reasoned and conscious thought. Today we reason that you don't have sex with you close relations where; one, it can cause genetic deformities in children, or two, where it can harm the normal sexual and emotional development of the child. But that doesn't mean that it is always wrong in some high and mighty God-given sense. Did you know, for examples that in some tribes in the world it is normal for the father to sexually initiate the daughter?"
"No ... I didn't" I whispered.
"Where such behaviour is 'normal' it does not cause problems. Difficulties usually only occur when an individuals behaviour is 'deviant' from the norm."
"Like incest in western culture you mean".
She sighed. "Yes, in a way that's what I mean. But I'm also trying to explain why it's not a problem for you or I."
"Oh ..." I murmured almost to myself.
"The real problem you have is not your fantasies but your blocked sexual drives"
I looked up at her sharply and quizzically.
"When you were younger there were times around me that you obviously felt sexually aroused. But instinctively you also knew that being sexually turned on by your mother was wrong. So you could not express that sexuality. If you like, you were in a no-win situation, and gradually you associated being genuinely turned on with doing something wrong. As a result your natural sexual drives became blocked."
"Hang on a moment" I interrupted. "I had a full sex life with my wife, I'm not impotent or anything. I don't know what you mean?"
She sat forward in her chair and looked at me seriously.
"It's more subtle than that John. I don't mean you could not have sex, but rather that initiating sex is more difficult for you than for other people. There is a lot of guilt and uncertainty around your sexuality. Am I not right?"
I thought about it for a moment.
"Well, maybe ... I don't know." I was suddenly aware that she was right. Although I was a genuinely social person, I had always found it extremely hard to chat-up women when they were sexually attractive to me. Even in my marriage it was rare for me to initiate sex. I always seem more comfortable in waiting for my wife to indicate that she wanted physical contact. I masturbated too much to, usually to fantasies that could never be realised.
I think she guessed what thoughts were going through my mind.
"When we started to talk around the subject of mother-son incest the last time you were here, to me it was initially amusing, and even oddly exciting. I reasoned that as mature adults some mutually consensual 'games' between us were fairly harmless. After all I can't have anymore children, and neither of us has a partner."
"Oh!" I said rather weakly. "I see ..."
She laughed. "You're shocked by my candour?"
"Well, yes ... frankly I am."
"Do you want to stop this conversation?" she enquired gently.
"No ... no definitely not." I answered perhaps too hurriedly.
"Anyway, to go back to last time, I slowly began to realise that for you the topic was a big problem. It is a ghost hanging over your entire sexuality. You wanted this, but there was no way ... except as in this case by accident ... that you could ever attempt to initiate your fantasies."
I shifted uncomfortably in the chair. I didn't like the way she seemed to understand me so well, and I felt myself turning a deep red.
Either she didn't notice or she ignored it, and she went on. "I understood that your natural drives were blocked ... caught in the emotional trap of deeply desiring something but not permitting oneself even to consciously acknowledge that desire. My sudden change in behaviour was an attempt to help you get through that blockage. Do you understand what I mean?"
I remembered how she had suddenly become so rude and aggressive ... and how I had eventually reacted to that aggression.
I nodded slowly. "I see." I said, and this time I actually meant it.
"It is a basic idea in psychotherapy actually." she explained. "If it is not possible to rid someone of a particular neuroses, sometimes it is better to embrace the neurotic behaviour and follow it wherever it leads. Like a journey that must be taken. This way the problem is 'worked through' so to speak."
"Oh!" I said again. "So you were 'working through' my incest fantasy?"
"Well I was making a start anyway."
It took a few moments for this to sink in. Indeed it wasn't until I realised that my cock was getting hard that I began to see where this was leading.
"Start!?" I said simply.
"Such a problem cannot be resolved in one session alone you know." she said with a smile that was both shy and rather devious.
"Mother," I whispered. "You're not really suggesting that we ... er ... make a habit of what happened last time, are you? I couldn't ... it's wrong. I abused you for God's sake!!"
She lay back in to her chair and crossed her legs, her tights (or stockings??) burring softly as the nylons met and scraped across each other.
"I am suggesting exactly that for three reasons ..."
"You've really thought this through" I whispered in a slightly sarcastic tone.
She just smiled and went on. "One, because you need to be free of this problem. It will change your whole life, believe me. Two, because I caused it and therefore I owe it to you to help put it right."
I started to speak, but she held up her hand.
"... and three, because I'll damn well enjoy it!"
To that I had no immediate answer.
III
For a long time I just sat staring at the wall trying to get my head round what she was suggesting. She had made it all sound so clinical, like she was a sex therapist and I was her patient. To be honest the whole idea scared me, I guess because she was right. The notion of sexually interacting with ... of dominating ... my mother filled me all sorts of conflicting emotions. Lust, desire, and excitement on the one hand, and shame and fear on the other. It just didn't seem 'right'.
I could, at this point, get into a long and philosophically deep discussion about the nature of 'right' and 'wrong', but I won't bore you with that. The bottom line is that 'consciously' I suspected she was right, but 'emotionally' I was very divided.
"I'll have to think on all you've said." I said at last.
"What exactly is it that worries you?" she asked with great seriousness.
"Well, I think it's because it is implicit in what you've said that this 'relationship' would not simply be ... well ... like us providing comfort for each other. You're suggesting, or at least I think you are, that I be dominant over you. Or have I got that wrong?"
She looked at me almost despairingly. "No John, " she said. "You haven't got it wrong. That's exactly what I mean. If I simply seduce you ... as I did to some extent last time ... then nothing will change inside you. You need to find a way to be both dominant and considerate at the same time. Last time you started subservient ... and only by losing control could you achieve what you really wanted."
"I hurt you didn't I?" I whispered.
"Yes." she said simply.
The word hung between us for a while.
She watched me intently, seeing my resolve on the matter evaporating in front of her eyes.
Then she sighed deeply. "John, John, is not a little pain sexually exciting? Do you really think I would be suggesting this if that worried me? How many times do I have to say this ... I want you to use my body for your pleasure. I WANT it! It's all I have left ..."
She timed her words just right ... what could I say to that? She WANTED it. Not just for me but for herself too. It was 'all she had left' she had said. Did she mean that it was her last chance for some genuine sexual excitement?
I nodded wearily at her. I guess I would just have to make the effort ... and rape and abuse her on a regular basis. After all she was my mother, how could I refuse!
Smiling inwardly at the absurdity having to actually be 'persuaded' to fuck my beautiful mother, I said. "Ok Mother I will do as you suggest ... and thank you."
After that we decided not to begin our new relationship until my next visit (which was a shame 'cos one part of me had spent a long time that evening wondering what she was wearing under that damn sexy outfit! Visions of black seams running up under her smart suit to multi-shaded stocking tops, and beyond, kept popping unbidden into my mind ... were they really stockings? God, I hoped so!). We chatted around the issues, and even made a few ground rules, such as what signal she would give if things went too far. It was all very bizzare to say the least, but I loved her for it. And somewhere deep down inside me I was incredibly excited by the whole thing. I felt like a child who'd just been told that tomorrow was Christmas ... and he could have whatever he wanted.
And when I went to bed all I wanted to do was masturbate ... to visions of getting mother out of those clothes! But oddly enough I didn't. I was saving myself for something better.
IV
Curiously enough I managed to find time to visit mother again the following weekend!
It had been a strange week, however, my emotions continuing to swing between fear and lust, and I was worried that I had no clear idea what to expect when I arrived at the cottage.
In the event everything appeared normal. Even mother's clothes had been toned down. Her hair was still long and free, but the suit had been exchanged for a blouse and skirt. Only her stiletto heels and dark smoky stockings (or tights?) held the same promise as last week.
"Hello my dear!" she said kissing my cheek. "And how's my little boy today?"
Ignoring the implied invitation I just said "Fine thanks mom." realising for the first time that I had absolutely no clue how to behave in this new role. "How are you?"
Dear God, I thought to myself, that was really dominant!
As she led me inside, her spiky heels tip-tapping on the hall lino dragged my eyes down to seek their reward in the dark seams that ran up the back of her stocking-clad legs. I felt myself hardening.
"Nice ..." I whispered.
She turned back to look at me enquiringly.
"Your legs," I said boldly. "Very nice."
"Oh," she said looking slightly embarrassed. "Er ... thank you."
"I'd like to see more," I said quietly.
She stopped and turned fully around. "John, I'm your mother. How can you say such things?"
She played her part so well that it was only with much difficulty that I managed to mutter, in a rather strangled voice "Take of your skirt and let me see your stockings."
"JOHN!" she cried in a shocked tone.
She was a couple of inches shorter than me, and as I closed the distance between us I looked down at her as menacingly as I could. "Undo your skirt, pull down the zipper, and let it slide to the floor. I want to see your stockings!"
She just stood there looking up at me, her breath suddenly shortening causing her breasts to heave in front of me. "Nice tits too," I added, and reached my hand out to cup her left breast.
She backed away from me as I did so. She looked panic-stricken. "How can you say such things," she moaned. "How can you even think such things?"
I followed her as she backed down the hall until she reached the bottom of the stairs. For a moment she halted and my outstretched hand clasped itself around her breast. As I tightened my grip she tried to turn up the stairs, but my hand caught around the lacy material. As she stumbled up the first step her blouse ripped open, buttons popping in all directions, revealing a tight white satin bra that pushed her breasts upwards into a deep cleavage.
"John!!" she almost screamed. "What are you doing?"
I pulled at the tatters of her blouse, ripping the rest away. Clumsily she tried to continue up the stairs, but stumbled and fell forward on her face. I moved up two steps and stood over her, my legs either side of her body.
"I want to see your stockings." I repeated. "Take off your skirt".
"Noo ...!" she wailed, and tried to scrambled further up the stairs.
I grabbed at her hair and pulled her head back, but she screamed so loudly that I let go, and she half-crawled, half-scrambled up the rest of the stairs. She disappeared round the corner into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
With a deep sigh I sat down on the bottom step. I knew I could not continue like this. Dominance was one thing but brutal rape was something else. At that scream from mother I had instantly lost my erection. I wanted her body (and I really really wanted to see her stockings!), but this was not the way forward.
"Be more subtle damn it, " I whispered to myself. "Make her submit to you, don't fucking batter the life out of her!"
With a sudden resolve I got up and followed her up the stairs. Somewhere at the back off my mind a new plan was forming. I walked up to her bedroom door and knocked softly.
"Mother?" I called.
There was no reply.
"Please talk to me mother!"
"Go away John," she said softly from behind the door.
"I'm sorry Mother I don't know what came over me. I won't hurt you anymore. Let me come in and explain." It seemed unlikely she would open the door so easily, but it was worth a try.
"Explain what?" she hissed through the door. "Why you suddenly think it's a clever idea to rape your own mother!!"
I thought for a moment. Then I said "yes ... I suppose I was trying to rape you. I'm sorry. That won't happen again. Let me explain. After such an assault I MUST explain, what happened and why."
"You won't ... do it again?" she said uncertainly.
"I swear I won't mother. I swear it ..."
I hear the key turn in the lock, and the door opened a fraction.
"Explain then." She said simply, keeping the door firmly in her hands.
"Let me come in." I whispered softly.
"No, explain first."
I sighed and leant again the door arch. "Ok, I'll try. " I said.
She looked at me with big mournful eyes, and I could see that she was still without a top. The swell of her breasts called to me from the shadows. Even though I knew this was a game, and it would never happen like this in real life, I was happily falling into my new part.
"I have always desired you mother," I began. "Right from as early an age as I can remember. The way you stood, the way you dressed, the way you spoke, were always so wonderful. Even before I knew what sex was I wanted to touch and stroke you. I loved you so much ... I still do."
"John ..." she whispered softly.
"Today, when I saw you, something snapped inside me. I Remembered how sexy you were in your stockings on those few odd times I saw them as a child. I have a fetish now for stockings ... I have a fetish for you. I'm so sorry ... really I am."
The door open and she stood there before me in her bra and skirt.
"You poor boy," she said gently. "But you mustn't do those things, it's wrong."
"I won't hurt you again mummy," I said. "I didn't mean to hurt you ... but I desire you so much ... please let me see your stockings ... please."
She stood there thoughtfully for a moment. "I can't ... I mustn't," she said very softly and gently. "It's wrong John, wrong to ask me ... wrong for me to let you see my ... my lingerie."
"Why?" I said simply. "What harm would it do now? We're both mature adults. I'm not a child anymore. Please, do this for me."
She looked up at me, her eyes growing large and round. "But ... " she started to say. "I can't ... I mustn't."
I looked down at her as gently as I could, and said with real feeling. "Please Mummy ... please."
Slowly ... very slowly she reach for the button on her dress and undid it. "I' shouldn't," she said again as she gently lowered the zipper. Her skirt fell to the floor revealing her legs clad in black seamed fully-fashioned stockings. She stepped out of the dress and stood there waiting.
I looked down in a slow and deliberate way, and my sudden intake of breath was not feigned. Her legs were perfect, and the suspender belt and stockings as erotic as anything I had ever seen.
"Thank you," I breathed, as I moved to her and dropped to my knees in front of her.
This elaborate game now began to take on a life of it's own. I began to understand what being dominant really means. Rape was not the answer, rather I had to make her bend to my desires through persistence and persuasion. At the same time I knew what I wanted and that I would not stop until I got it, but encouraging her to give it to me freely was not only more rational but also far more sexy.
She stood there entirely still whilst my shaking hands gently reached up to stroke her legs. I touched the material of the stockings, feeling it's slightly rough but warm texture. I ran my hands up the dark smoothness of her legs, my fingers lingering on the suspender clips, my eyes feasting on the bands of darkness that transformed themselves into her stocking-tops.
After a moment both my hands circled around her sensuous and satin-covered legs, and my head lowered to that magic place where the flesh above her stockings was revealed either side of the thin strip of fabric that covered her bush. Gently I kissed at this holy place, first one side then the other, and finally I buried my face in the place in between, pressing my mouth onto her cunt. At the same time my hands reached up to embrace her buttocks.
"No ... John ... don't", she murmured softly. "This is wrong. I'm your mother. You cannot kiss me there ... not your own mother." But as she said the words her hands softly caressed my head, and she made no move to retreat.
As if in a trance I continued to worship her secret places. I kissed and licked at her thighs, my cheeks caressing her stocking-tops, my hands running up and down her legs. I pulled her closer and closer too me. I let my tongue try to slip under her panties, pushing and poking at the lips of her vagina. Half-heartedly she tried to push me back, but I could tell by the growing dampness around my face, that somewhere inside she really wanted to push my face further in and not pull it away. Eventually I began to nuzzle and chew at moist panty material, trying to take it all in my mouth. I could tell by her small sounds and sighs that she had given up resisting.
As I kneeled there, filling my mouth with her sex, I felt a power inside me that was at last unchained. With a last nuzzle I pulled my face back and slowly stood up. I looked deep into my mother's eyes. They had taken on a sleepy, far-off look.
"I love you," I said, as tenderly as I could.
She smiled through half-closed eyes.
"Now it's your turn." I whispered.
She looked confused, but as my hands reached for her shoulders and began gently exert a downward pressure, she finally understood. what I wanted.
"Oh ... no ... no!" she breathed as she sank to her knees.
She kneeled there in front of me, inches from my hard but hidden cock. For a moment her eyes left mine and glanced down at the bulge, and then back up again.
"Don't make me do this ... please John ... not your own mother." Her eyes seemed sad, sorrowful and pleading.
I smiled at her as my hand left her shoulders and reached down to undo my trousers. I let them fall to the floor and eased my throbbing cock from it's restraint in my underpants. It sprang up towards her face, coming to a shivering halt inches from her mouth.
"Open your mouth mother," I whispered, holding her eyes firmly to mine.
She looked up at me pleadingly. "No John, not your own mother, " she repeated.
"Yes mummy," I murmured. "My cock needs your soft velvet mouth ... it wants to come home."
As her mouth began to open I heard her sighing softly "don't cum ... not in mummy's mouth. Please don't cum. Do on my face if you must, but not in my mouth ..."
I slipped my hand around the back of her head and gently lowered her mouth onto me. "Suck it mummy ... swallow it deep," I whispered back to her.
Slowly she began to embrace my cock with her mouth, raising and lowering it up and down my penis. Each time she went deeper and deeper down, until my whole cock was disappearing inside her mouth and throat. All the while her soft cow-eyes looked up at me despairingly. As the tempo increased and my pleasure from this act mounted to ecstasy, I felt my balls tightening. I slipped my hands behind her head encouraging a strong backward and forward motion. Eventually I was fucking her face without restraint or hesitation.
"Sucking me you bitch," I whispered. "Fucking ... fucking ... bitch!"
As her hands came up and clutched at my buttocks I looked down into her eyes. Still they seem to plead with me not to go too far. I smiled at her ... and rammed my cock harder and harder into her face. Then will a yell of triumph I released a life-time of pent-up frustration, and filled her mouth with my white sticky cum.
"Swallow it ... " I whispered stroking her hair. "Drink it all down Mummy."
She coughed and gurgled as her mouth filled to overflowing with cum. Her panic-stricken eyes closed, but eventually she gulped and started to swallow frantically Despite this, numerous white strings of cum dribbled down her chin and dripped on to her breasts.
As my cock reduced in size I still held her head tight to my crotch, not letting her release it from her mouth. At the same time I lightly caressed her hair. Then I released her head and she pulled back taking a deep breath. On an impulse I reached down to her cum soaked chin, collecting the white stuff in my palm ... and then I gently lifted it up and smothered it all over her face, rubbing it lovingly around, smearing her lipstick and make-up.
V
Mother lay upon the bed dressed only in her panties, garter belt, black stockings and high-heeled shoes. I was sitting next to her, gently wiping the stains from her face with a perfumed tissue, and making soft sounds of reassurance.
"Thank you mummy, " I whispered. " I always dreamed that some day you would do that for me. It was ... unbelievable."
I stroked her face, softly touching her hair and curling it between my fingers. Her eyes were closed, but there was the merest hint of a smile on her face, and she seemed relaxed now. To be honest I had no idea if we were still playing the 'game', or if this were real.
"I love you Mum," I said simply.
Her eyes flickered open and she smiled sweetly at me.
"I ... I shouldn't be with you like this," she whispered. "But I love you too John ... so much. I'd do anything for you ... even ... this."
I bent forward and kissed her softly on the lips. As I lent back my hand wandered down from her hair, over her shoulder and across her breast, lingering for a moment on the nipple. I felt it harden at my touch. I swivelled slightly, running my hand across her flat stomach, ever so lightly over the mound of her sex, and coming to rest just above her stockings. I could feel the metal of the suspender clasp under my fingers, and my cock hardened again as I inwardly embraced the sensation of touching her suspenders. I turned around and looked down hungrily at her stockings.
I shivered inside as I admired how well she wore those stockings. They were smooth and tight and the suspenders were high up upon her thigh. I could see, even from where I was, that the seams were perfectly straight, running down to her shiny stiletto shoes. The shoes had a strap around the calf above her ankles, and the whole effect was like something out of a sexy men's magazine. Very lightly and gingerly I let my hand drift down to touch the material of her stocking-tops. I felt, as well as heard, the whisper sound of my rough finger-tips upon the nylon. I shivered, I couldn't help it. Although I didn't move my head, I could sense that mother was looking intently at my face.
I breathed a deep sigh and said softly, "Why am I so fascinated with your stockings? Why do they reach so deeply into my soul? Oh Mother they ... and you ... are so wonderful."
Again without looking at her face I felt her smile. "It's alright, I understand baby, I really do" she whispered. "Take your time ... touch them, feel them, enjoy them. My body and my stockings are yours to do with as you wish. Embrace them, worship them ... rip them to pieces ... do whatever gives you pleasure."
I looked up and met her smiling eyes, and for a moment I felt myself drowning in their warmth and tenderness. As I continued to caress her nylons, my fingers absorbing every touch and catch of skin as they moved slowly across the material, I realised that her eyes were subtly different from how I'd ever seen them before. They had a far-away sleepiness and a strange intensity that was both pleasing and electrifying. I stared deeply into their liquid pools, and felt myself drifting away. Dimly I realised that her eyes were betraying her horny sexuality, and that we were making love not just physically, through the touch of my fingers, but emotionally and spiritually as well.
I don't remember how long I sat there playing with her legs and the feel of her stockings, but almost without thought or understanding I found myself lying beside her, my hands now caressing her whole body. Her face, her mouth, her lips, her breasts, all succumbed to my touch. At the same time I felt her hand upon my penis probing gently, and quietly removing the garments that disturbed free access. I moaned silently as she took my flesh in her hand and began to massage my cock.
Again my memory dims and comes back to us both naked. I was on my back and her mouth had found it's way down to my cock and was licking and sucking and worshipping my sex. And then I was kissing her between her legs, my tongue dipping and probing and suckling at her most sensitive place. Finally I have this vague, dreamlike memory, of entering her slowly, of pushing deeply into that place from which my body had issued so many years before ... of love turning to passion, and of lust becoming unchained. I can still hear her soft voice whispering enchantments to me. Love, lust, incest and fetish, all reflected in her arousing murmurs.
"Fuck mummy," she was moaning. "Fuck mummy in her stockings ... mummy in her black seamed stockings, fuck mummy, make mummy suck your cock ... come in her mouth, on mummy's face. Fuck your naughty, naughty mummy ... show her who's boss, teach her ... take her!"
And interspersed between the cries of lust were words of love ...
"Oh John, I love you, I want you ... I'll do whatever you want. Anything. Love your mummy, kiss your mummy, take your mummy home ...oh my darling, darling John!"
And then I came to the sound of her cries of passion and orgasm. I filled her with my seed as she moaned and moaned, and held me deep inside her. Her legs wrapped around my body, her hands clutching my buttocks, forcing me up as deep as I could go. She thrust at me almost violently, dragging the last ounce of pleasure she could from our coupling.
For a while we slept, but then on through the evening and night we made love again ... and again and again, till at some point in the early hours I drifted away into the most satisfied sleep I'd ever known.
VI
In the morning I awoke to the sound of Mother's voice calling from downstairs. Evidently 'breakfast was ready', and I should wash up and come down. As I washed and dressed I mused to myself as to how far we'd really followed her so-called 'strategy'. All the stuff about freeing my blocked sexual drives started to seem like self-justification. Maybe all she ever wanted was to fuck her son, and all the rest of it was just her path to that end. Who knows? I didn't, and frankly I didn't care anymore. The barriers were down, and for a while we would simply enjoy each other. Maybe I would be 'damaged' psychologically by this, or maybe I would be 'healed'. Frankly, as I said, I didn't care anymore, although if I had to guess I suspected that it would be the latter. I certainly felt much better about my own sex and sexual needs. As I walked downstairs, I mused as to how I might just experiment a bit with the situation ... after all this was what she wanted ... to be used by a man. And me being her son only made it all more exciting for her.
Mother was laying the table as I entered and she was again dressed in her stunning 'business suit'. God, she looked so sexy in that outfit, with the smart buttoned jacket and tight skirt, and seamed stockings. Once again I felt a strong desire to know what she was wearing underneath that amazing outfit.
As I sat down and she placed a bowl of porridge in front of me.
"It's not very warm," she said curtly. "But them if you'd come down when I asked it would have been hot".
I eyed her suspiciously, wondering whether she was really feeling ratty with me ... or if, to quote Sherlock Holmes, 'the game was on again'.
"Sorry Mother," I said politely.
She sat down across the table from me, and, making no attempt to start eating. She looked at me darkly.
"We need to talk", she said. "What happened yesterday was atrocious, and cannot be allowed to continue. I think I'm being very understanding by not kicking you out of my house instantly. I expect a full apology ... and a promise that you will not try to ... to ... handle me again!".
Somewhere deep inside I felt a warm glow. The game was indeed on again.
I stood up abruptly. "I will make no such promise", I said firmly. "I don't think you realise that after yesterday things have changed around here".
She looked at me. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that you will do what I tell you ... and not give me any orders!"
"I will not! I most definitely will not!"
"I think you need a lesson on who's boss here", I said as sternly as I could.
In one fluid motion I stood up and went behind her chair. As she started to rise in response I held her down in the chair by her shoulders.
"Stay where you are!" I commanded.
Still holding her with one hand, I reached down in front of her and put my finger in her bowl of porridge.
"Hmm", I murmured. "You're right it's almost cold".
"What are you doing?" she said in alarm. "Let go of me!".
With my free hand I lifted the bowl above her head.
"Are you going to behave yourself Mother?" I asked with exaggerated gentleness. "Are you going to be a good compliant mother, and do as you're told ... or are you going to be a fucking miserable old bitch who needs to be taught a lesson?"
"What ... what do you mean?" she said hesitantly.
"I mean are you going to behave yourself, and get down on your knees and open your mouth for me ... and suck it down like a good girl .... whenever I want. Or am I going to have to 'tame you'".
"How dare you ..." she breathed with an air of offended alarm."How dare you , you degraded insufferable ..."
"Shut up!" I hissed, and slowly emptied the bowl of porridge over her forehead. It ran down her face and dripped messily on to the front of her suit.
"Hmm ...", I murmured. "Looks just like a face-full of cum ... Lovely!".
Then with both hands I rubbed the soggy mess into her face and hair. She struggled and spluttered, but I ignored it, and simply stepped back as she stood up and faced me angrily. She was breathing deeply and her breasts heaved before me, and before she could say anything I grabbed at the front of her suit and tore it apart. Buttons flew in all directions.
For a moment I stood in pleasurable surprise as I realised that she was wearing a white Basque underneath the serge suit.Photos
Photos http://cuon.io/QYPJyqD "Wow!", I whispered to myself. Then, as I pushed her back against the table, I clawed the remaining porridge down from her face and onto her chest. I massaged it into her breasts, pushing some down the cleavage at the front of the Basque.
Abruptly she spat at me.
"Bitch!" I yelled, and spun her around till she was bending over the table. I unzipped the skirt and dropped it to the floor. Pulling down her pants below her magnificent stockings, I inserted my finger deep into her arse. Even as I was doing this some part of my mind was imagining her standing there dressed in the Basque and stockings, inwardly admiring the view and praising her for her dress-sense and understanding of my fetish.
"Noooo ..." she screamed. as she realised what I was doing.
"Hmm, bit tight", I said casually, and collected up some of the porridge with my other hand. "Needs a bit of lubrication I think ..."
She screamed again as I rammed my now porridge-covered cock into her anus.
"Oh God! Oh God!", she wailed as I started to fuck this tightest of holes. "No, no John, not there ... PLEASE!"
I ignored her for a moment, and then suddenly I pulled out and swung her round, at the same time forcing her down to her knees.
"So ... who's the boss now Mother?"
She looked up at me with angry eyes. But slowly they became docile and resigned, and after a moment she started to open her mouth.
"Wider ..." I whispered, as I aimed my cock at her mouth. " ...oh, and make sure you lick it clean first. It's covered with shitty porridge at the moment".
Slowly and meticulously she licked my cock clean. Then she took me deep into her mouth, moving her head back and forth as her tongue curled around my penis.
"Nice", I whispered. "But not good enough".
I put my hands behind her head and started to fuck her face hard and deep. She spluttered but kept her face and mouth steady as I rammed myself deep into her throat.
"Fucking old Bitch!" I hummed to myself as I fucked her mouth. "Get ready ... breakfast is coming!".
But then at the last moment I pulled out and ejaculated straight into her face, pumping squirts of cum over her nose, hair, and eyes. "Oh God, yes ..." I shouted as I milked the last of the juice from my cock. "Oh my God, YES!".
"Not really so different from porridge, is it?", I muttered as I rubbed the cum into her face.
"Now we know who's boss, don't we mummy?".
She looked up at me, her sorry face splattered with porridge and cum.
"Y ... yes, baby," she spluttered. "You're ... you're the boss now."
She looked up at me, and even through the runny white mess on her face I could see she was smiling.
"Hmm," I mused, as I started to wipe her face clean, "I think we'll have baked beans for breakfast tomorrow!"
