This is a print version of story MOTHER'S GOOD DEED by taboolover1966 from


Mother's Good Deedbyrbuchanan©
I suppose it all began when I was at college and I was seduced by a fellow pupil ... a male fellow pupil. Although I lived in a fairly well-to-do part of southern England, I have to admit I was pretty naive and innocent ... but then this was the 1950's and most people were pretty naive and innocent in those days. It's not like that anymore (sad to say). Anyway, we used to have a science class once a week in the science 'lab', and the seating for the pupils was a bit like a lecture hall, with the benches rising up in rows to the back. My friend, Simon, and I used to like to sit in the very back row and mess about during the lectures. Neither of us was very good at science.

One day, halfway through a chemistry lecture, I felt a hand on the front of my trousers, feeling for my penis. I was shocked, stunned, but I just sat there as if nothing was happening. I looked at Simon, but he was staring ahead. For a moment or two I toyed with the idea of getting up and leaving the Hall, but I didn't. To be honest I wasn't sure if I was appalled ... or if I quite liked it. Slowly and gently he began to massage my hardening cock, until I started to relax and enjoy the feelings he aroused. This went on for some five or ten minutes. Then the lecture ended and he withdrew his hand.

Afterwards nothing was said between us.

The following week I again sat next to him at the back, and he again began to feel my cock. This time however, after a couple of minutes, he lent over and whispered very softly in my ear.

"Feel mine," was all he said.

With some trepidation and uncertainty I obeyed his command, and reached gingerly down between his legs and felt for his penis. It was hard and I rubbed it gently through his trousers. And so we sat there, one hand secretly caressing the other's tool, the other on top of the desk and under our chins, supporting faces that appeared to be staring ahead and listening attentively to the lecture. Looking back it all seems quite bizarre.

I can't remember exactly how long we carried on with this behaviour throughout the term, many weeks I would guess. I do remember we became more daring, actually taking each other's cocks out of our trousers and massaging them whilst we sat there amongst the other students in the lecture hall. We never seemed to worry about getting caught.

Inevitably this relationship developed further over time. I say 'relationship', but the fact is I was just following Simon's wishes, and obeying without question whatever he wanted me to do. I never started it, but I never refused his desires.

The following term he suggested we go across the road to the park for lunch and a 'fag' (in the cigarette sense of the term), and as always I agreed. In fact we went through the park to the woods beyond, and he led me to a quiet spot, put his hand down inside my trousers and started playing with me. In response to his request I unzipped his fly, took out his cock and rubbed it back, as if it were my own.

Soon we started to do this every lunch time, and it was during one of these trips we first ejaculated. He would rub me till I came, and then I would rub and fondle him till him until he shot his load over the grass and leaves. Curiously we never discussed what we did, it just happened ... and over the following year he took every opportunity to be alone with me in order for us to engage in these acts.

I confess I enjoyed being seduced. I didn't have to do anything, make any decisions or choices; I just followed his commands and took pleasure from his exploring hands. I guess we were both young and naive in those days, and we never went very far beyond simple mutual masturbation. I wasn't gay and neither was he ... we were just boys in a boys-only school.

However these games came to a head and final conclusion late that winter. On the surface Simon was just my best mate, and one day my mother invited him to stay over at our place for the weekend. He agreed enthusiastically, and that night we slept in single beds side by side in my bedroom (the other bed was my older bother's, but he was away).

About an hour after we had gone to bed, just as I was dropping off the sl**p, I felt the cover pulled back, and Simon slip in beside me. He pulled down my pyjamas and began to fondle me as usual. I did the same and began to play with his penis. The fact we were lying down and naked below our waists seemed to turn us both on more than usual, and I felt Simon's hand caressing my buttocks. As was my part in all this, I began to do the same to him. Then, quite suddenly he became emboldened, and began to push his cock between my legs, under my balls. I lay there as he mounted me and started to fuck the area between my closed legs. I remember how having him on top of me ... fucking me ... was both strange and exciting. Then without warning he slid himself down under the covers and took my cock in his mouth.

For a moment I was stunned and surprised, and then the sheer lustful excitement of what he was doing took over, and for the first and only time in our relationship, I moaned with pleasure. I suspect it was this sound that was responsible for all that followed. At the time, however, I was simply lost in the joy of what I was feeling. My legs opened wide, and my hand reached down to his head and pressed it down on to my cock, forcing him to take me deeper.

Abruptly I realised I was going to cum and I tried to push him away, not wanting to cum in his mouth. But he resisted and kept going, and suddenly I blasted jets of white sticky cream into his sucking jaws. He pulled back, but not far and let me cum the rest on his face whilst he continued to masturbate me furiously.

I suppose both of us were incredibly aroused by what had happened, and almost immediately he pushed my face down towards his cock. I resisted slightly, feeling uncertain about whether I wished to return the favour or not, but the excitement was too much for him and he suddenly came, plastering my face and nose with his semen even before my lips had touched his waiting cock. Despite this he f***ed me down onto his penis to suck up and swallow all the remaining spurts of cum. I didn't like the taste, but as with all that had gone before I obeyed wordlessly, and sucked his cock clean.

As we lay there afterwards, both of us exhausted and satisfied, I heard a sound in the doorway, and I tuned my head in time to see a figure leave the shadows and disappear from the end of the room. Instinctively I knew it was my mother...


That night was the last time that Simon and I had any form of sex together. Not long after he found himself a girlfriend and lost interest in me. I too started dating the odd girl, but I missed those walks in the woods, not because of Simon but because of the sex. You see I wasn't very good with girls ... I wasn't forward enough or strong enough, and looking back, I guess my first sexual experiences with Simon had cast me as the 'passive' partner and I could never quite escape that role, even after I started to go out with girls. Back in those days young girls were not nearly as dominant as they are now, and with the kind of girls I went out with, if you didn't start anything, well not very much happened!

So I think I came to be perceived by many people, my mother included, as either effeminate or even possibly gay. I suppose in some sense maybe I was, after all I'd had a more intense sexual relationship with a male than I'd ever had with any female, so maybe I could be called gay? But I didn't think so, simply because there were no feelings between Simon and me, it was just physical. Whereas I'd already loved (and lost) a young lady called Linda.

She was one of the group I went around with, and at first she seemed to really like me. After a couple of weeks, however, she took a shine to another boy in the group called 'Eric' (God, how I hated that name!), and that hurt me more deeply than anything I'd ever known. I guess you could say she was my first love. So anyway, unlike Simon, this relationship was more emotional than sexual, and in the two weeks we'd been together the most I'd done to her was kiss her a few times and briefly fondle her left breast.

I never spoke to my Mother about Linda ... frankly it hurt too much ... and I think she was convinced I was 'queer'. I didn't know for sure (she never mentioned it) but I suspected she'd witnessed Simon and I engaging in oral sex. She must have been appalled, not only because such things were not done in those days, but because it indicated to her that I preferred boys to girls. I guess she must have been really worried for me, and somewhere along the line I think she convinced herself that someone had to do something about it, and as she was the only person who knew or really cared, then it would have to be her.

I have to say I'm surmising all this with the benefit of hindsight, but there's no doubt that it's about this time she began to behave differently to me. I think (again with hindsight) she was trying draw out my 'male instincts', for whenever my Father was not around she started to act and dress, well 'seductively' is the only word. She started wearing shorter skirts, and allowing her dress to rise up at regular intervals so I could come to appreciate her (rather wonderful) legs, and even glimpse the tops of her stockings. Her tops were lower too, and she would tend to lean forward in front of me, giving me a splendid view of her ample bosom. I think she hoped I would come to genuinely appreciate her breasts and her stocking-clad legs.

And I did ... my God I did!

At first I had no idea what she was doing or why, I simply began to notice her more than usual. Or rather I began to notice her body more than usual. Instinctively I knew that noticing how physically attractive you mother is, is not an appropriate thing for a son to do, so I attempted to avoid situations where I saw 'too much'. Sometimes in the evening, for example, she would come downstairs wearing only a slip. This tended to be quite short, revealing both her cleavage and an unusual amount of thigh. If she was wearing her fully-fashioned seamed stockings, as was increasingly the case, she would often reveal the beginnings of the darker bands of brown that were her stocking-tops. I tried hard not to look, but as she lent forward to pick up something from the coffee table, she'd occasionally expose a hint of white flesh above the stocking, and this area, where the normal nylon gradually took on a more intense colouring and density, started to fascinate and intrigue me. I didn't know why but I began to want to see more (I was only human after all!). Her stocking tops seemed to promise something intensely exciting, and slowly I began to develop what eventually became a 'fetish'. At the same time, however, I felt terribly embarrassed that I was seeing so much. As a result I took every opportunity to look, but at the same time went to incredible lengths not to let her realise I was looking.

As a result I think she mistook my embarrassment at my own lust, for an indication I was simply not interested. I tried so hard not to let her see me ogling her underwear, she thought that I wasn't interested in her ... presumably (or so she thought) because she was a woman, and I wasn't interested in women. Little did she know I was beginning to masturbate to graphic visions of her in her underclothes.

Slowly everything about her began to turn me on. Her generous breasts, lifted and straightened to sharply pointed tips by her 50's bra, and thrust out like inverted cones or horizontal mountain peaks, fascinated me, and when the chance arose I couldn't take my eyes off them. They were so big, so blatant ... and yet so untouchable. The mere idea of reaching out to them with my hands and fondling them, made my cock so hard it hurt ... and the idea of actually exploring the peaks of those thunderous mountains (and the intimate valleys between), of pulling away the material to reveal the pillow-like softness of the dark-tipped flesh within, well that would bring me to instant orgasm.

And yet to me her legs were even more erotic.

She would sit on the sofa across the room from me in her white satin slip with her legs crossed, casually revealing the tops of her stockings. And I would be sitting there reading a textbook ... except I wasn't. The book was held up to cover my eyes and face, and I would be looking underneath and studying her legs. Examining in microscopic detail how those stockings caressed, comforted, and clung to her legs. Their smoothness and sheen was so alluring; the soft whisper-music they made as they rubbed against each other or against the satin material of her slip was more electric than any guitar music. And the way the bands of colour darkened upwards in ever-increasing rings of nylon, fired my imagination. They seemed to slowly draw the eye up to some warm but forbidden darkness that must lie hidden beyond. I remember how I studied the white suspender clips, standing out as they did against the ultimate brown of the stocking top. They seemed to hang there like miniature guide-rails, waiting for some innocent hand to grasp them for support and be led up, unsuspectingly, to the waiting wonders beyond. I wanted to put my hands there ... to touch the material, to be led on up, and to kiss and caress what lay beyond. I had this major fantasy of laying my head on Mother's thighs, just to feel the satin softness of her stocking tops against my cheek, and to gaze down in sl**py wonder at the architecture of her underwear.

III It was strange but I really believe she had no idea how much she turned me on, believing instead I was repulsed by her body, and this eventually led her to be even more suggestive and seductive in her actions. Clearly, she thought, I was lost to heterosexuality, and only something major would now save me from a life of misery as a 'queer'. (This was the late 50's and in those days homosexuality had not been accepted by anyone and prejudice was rife). I believe my mother really thought she was being noble in her actions ... well at first she did anyway... later I wasn't so sure!

It was when my Father went abroad for three months that things really began to develop. By then I had begun to very dimly suspect what was happening, and a conversation I had with mother the night before Dad left for France made me stop and think very deeply about the whole situation.

It had begun when we were watching television late that evening. Some play or other was on TV and the couple in the play were beginning to get physical with each other. I remember clearly the young man undressing his girlfriend and making comments about her rather buxom figure. Sitting next to my mother I was naturally embarrassed. Not because I was gay, but because I was 'turned on', and I didn't want her to know. But mother, of course, got it all wrong when I made my excuses and left. I presume she thought I was offended by the idea of normal sex. So she called me back and tried to talk to me about 'things'.

"Peter I want to talk to you," she began rather formally.

"Uh," I replied unenthusiastically

"Come and sit next to me," she commanded, patting the sofa.

Reluctantly I wandered over to her and sat down.

"What?" I murmured.

"I ... I want to talk to you about ... about boys and girls."

I said nothing, just looked down.

"You don't like girls very much do you?" She began.

"Not at the moment," I replied almost in a whisper, thinking about Linda and how much she'd hurt me.

"I thought not," she said rather sadly. "That's ... that's a shame Peter."

"Yes," I said, still thinking about the girl who'd broken my heart.

"It would be ... er ... better if you did, you know," she said. She seemed unsure of exactly what to say or how to proceed.

I looked up at her vaguely confused.

"Have you ever seen a ... er ... a woman ... without her clothes on?" She asked gently.

Embarrassed again I looked down. I just shook my head.

"If you did, do you think ... you might like ...that?" Her obvious uncertainty and embarrassment causing her to stutter and stumble on the words.

Still looking down, and wondering what the hell she was talking about, I mumbled something like, "yes, I guess so."

"D'you think it might change your view about girls," she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

I didn't know what to say, mostly because I didn't understand what the hell she was talking about, so I just remained silent.

After a moment she whispered, "I see," as if I'd said something important.

She looked at me intently. I could feel it, even though my eyes were glued to the floor. I was so embarrassed. All I wanted at that moment was to get away from her.

"Well," She said at length, "perhaps we should investigate. Perhaps ... with a little encouragement you might come to appreciate a girl ... or a woman, and what she could ... can do for you," she ended lamely.

"Umm ..." I murmured in a noncommittal whisper, thinking to myself that my mother had just gone crazy.

"Good!" she said suddenly and leapt to her feet. "Perhaps we can continue this conversation tomorrow night ... when your father has gone."

"OK," I breathed as I hurriedly left the sofa and headed for my room.

Later, as I lay on my bed thinking about what Mother had said, and all that had happened recently, I began to put two and two together and realise what was happening. "Oh my God," I whispered to myself. "She thinks I'm a bl**dy poof!" And as I followed the logic of what she'd said, and what she probably meant by those words, my cock suddenly got very hard.


Ok, so let me be honest! I guess I knew full well by the next evening what she was trying to do ... but I also knew that keeping quiet and not revealing her mistake to her might well prove a more ... hmm, let me think of the right word ... 'rewarding' strategy to follow. It wasn't really as conscious or clinical as that, of course, it was more a deep instinctive understanding that if I did and said nothing, then things might get ...well, interesting! So when she called me in to the lounge the next night I more consciously played the part she had assigned to me. Well, what would you have done?

I think I half expected her to be dressed only in her slip or maybe a dressing-gown when I went in, but she wasn't, and I was ever so slightly disappointed. She was still dressed as she had been when she'd taken Dad to the station. A tight-ish smart burgundy skirt and a white blouse that was every so vaguely see-through. I noticed immediately, however, that she was now wearing high-heeled shoes, and looking more closely (as she turned to sit down), I also noticed her stockings were now seamed and much sheerer. So, as I sat down opposite her, my disappointment began to evaporate.

Mother was about 50 I guess, but she looked much younger. Her hair was auburn, short, and nicely styled. She wasn't beautiful exactly, but she had this alluring smile that lit up her face. I guess her breasts weren't really as big as I remember, but that damn bra she wore sure made them look massive. She was kind of motherly and kind of matronly, but also kind of sophisticated too. There was no doubt that once she must have been a very attractive woman, and although she'd filled out a bit since those days, she was still a pretty desirable lady. Right now, however, she was just a sex-object to me, mostly because above all she was incredibly feminine and she represented the whole world of women, a world that in those days was way out of my reach.

She sat primly on the sofa and smiled at me. I have to say as I looked at her, knowing what I knew, I suddenly found her incredibly desirable. She might have been my own mother, but she was also an experienced older woman with a great body and massive tits! Suddenly it seemed possible, just possible, that tonight I might even get my hands around those tits, and I tell you I was more physically excited then than I'd ever been in my whole life before.

Very gently she patted the sofa next to her and whispered, "Come and sit by me dear."

I think I was shaking with anticipation, but I did as she requested. I sat down, and making an extreme effort to control myself, I smiled warmly and innocently back at her.

"What's up Mum?" I asked as cheerfully as I could.

For a moment she seemed lost for words, as if she didn't know where to start. I don't think my apparently innocent cheerfulness helped her much.

"I ... you ..." she began falteringly.

I smiled up at her again, with the kind of sweet innocent smile that is the sole property of a scheming mind.

"Yes ...?" I prompted.

"You remember what we talked about last night?" She half-whispered half-croaked, her mouth suddenly very dry.

Taking my cue I looked down guiltily

"Er ... yes", I responded.

"I ... I want to try and ... help you."

Silence on my part seemed like the most appropriate response.

"I'm afraid ... I know you may not like ..." she paused, searching for the right words. "You may not appreciate any of this to begin with."

Somewhere deep inside me somebody grinned softly, and at the same time I felt the bl**d rushing down to my loins.

"... but I think, indeed I am sure, that it's necessary for you."

"What Mum?" I asked innocently. "What's 'necessary' for me?"

"Oh Dear," she sighed deeply. I ... I ..." She stopped, clearly at a loss for what to say or how to continue.

For a moment I thought she was going to give up on whatever she was planning, and as I was fairly sure I didn't want her to do that, at least not before anything had happened, I said (in as sad a voice as I could manage), "is it something to do with me not liking girls?"

"Yes dear," she whispered, seemingly relived to have found a way forward. "It's ... it's going to be difficult for you in the future ... not liking girls. You'll miss out on so much ... on a home and a f****y. It's just not right."

"I can't help it mum," I muttered mournfully and dishonestly.

"I know dear ... but maybe you could like girls ... with a little help."

"Help?" I said, trying very hard to keep any of the excitement I was feeling out of my voice. "What sort of help?"

Mother was silent for a moment, and then she took a deep breath. "Girls can be nice ... can be fun. If you know what I mean?"

"Fun?" I murmured, clearly demonstrating I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Yes fun ... exciting." She paused realising she needed to be just a little more explicit, but still very reluctant to take the plunge.

"Girls aren't very exciting!" I replied miserably. "Not the ones I know anyway!"

"Oh dear..." she whispered to herself. And then taking another deep breath she made the leap.

"Girls can be sexy you know ... very ... very sexy. Don't you think?"

"Not the girls I know," I repeated obstinately.

"But you've not had the opportunity to know what it's like to be with a sexy girl, have you? A sexy girl ... a sexy woman can be so unbelievably ... er ... exciting!"

She seemed to be stuck going round in circles, unable to break out to another level, but I wasn't going to help her. It had to come from her.

"None of the girls I know are very exciting," I repeated again.

"Well, maybe if you could be with a woman ... maybe that would be different." I could hear the breathless tension in her voice as she said this, but again I pretended not to understand.

"But I don't know any women, Mum, certainly not any exciting ones!"

"I'm a woman," she whispered hoarsely. "Aren't I?"

I instinctively turned to look up at her. She was breathing very deeply and her breasts were heaving in and out just inches from my face. Quickly I looked down.

"But .... You're my mother," I said simply.

"I can be exciting," she breathed. "Sexy even. "

"But .... You're my mother," I repeated.

"I know," she whispered. "But I'm also a woman. Maybe I can help you to like women better."

"But I already like you mum," I said, in a stunning mastery of apparent misunderstanding.

"I mean dear," she said with infinite patience. "Maybe I can help you to like what a woman can do for you ... you know those ..." and here her voice became hushed. "... Those sexy things a woman can do for you."

It's strange you know but even though I had known clearly where we she was going with this, and even though I'd encouraged it through my small subterfuge of ignorance, I was still genuinely shocked when she said it out loud like that. This time the silence that followed was not an act, I really didn't know what to say.

"Will you let me try," she said gently.

I think she misunderstood my simple shocked silence for a reluctance to do anything with a woman, even (or maybe especially) my own mother.

"Please darling let me just try. If you don't like it then we'll stop. OK?"

What could I say? Even if every fibre of my being hadn't been straining to shout 'OK' at the top of my voice, those two simple letters would still have tumbled from me anyway. After all I was the 'passive' one, remember?

"Ok," I said very quietly.


As she sidled up beside me on the sofa she turned to face me, and her body seemed to open itself up, as if all taboos and barriers were being removed. She smiled, but her breathlessness seemed to be increasing. I didn't understand at the time, but even though all this was in one sense a sacrifice for her, some part of her was undoubtedly excited at the prospect.

"Where shall we start?" she said, almost gaily.

I looked at her in wide-eyed astonishment.

"Oh dear, my poor baby," she whispered and patted my knee. "Give mummy a cuddle."

She pulled me to her, not holding herself back like normal, but crushing me into her bosom and kissing softly at my neck. Her scent was overpowering, and for a moment the smell of her perfume, combined with the excitement of what she'd been saying up to that point, nearly made me cum in my trousers. Thankfully, after a moment, she pulled back and sat upright in front of me.

"Give me your hands," she said gently.

I placed my hands in hers, struggling mentally to calm my physical excitement.

"Have you ever touched a woman's breast?" she said breathlessly.

"No," I lied.

She lifted up my left hand and laid it across her breast. As it lay there I could feel the voluptuous shape of her bosom beneath my hand.

"You can feel it if you like," she said, and for a moment my head echoed with Simon's voice.

Very softly and gingerly I shaped my hand around the outline of her breast. By now I was as breathless as her.

"Does that feel good?"

I mumbled an intended innocent and non-committal, "yes ... ok." But my breathless and half-strangled voice told a different story.

She leaned forward and whispered into my ear, "Undo my blouse!"

Mt cock jerked in my trousers like a rifle re-loading. I lifted my hand from her breast and moved it to the buttons. Shakily I undid the first two.

"Keep going," she said soothingly.

I undid the next three until her blouse was hanging open. Then she lifted up both my hands and slid them inside her blouse, bringing them gently to rest cupped under her bra. As I sat there, my hands inside my own mother's blouse, holding her wondrous breasts, my heart pounded and my head spun in tremulous excitement. I simply could not believe what I was being allowed to do, holding her bosom in my hands, and sensing and feeling the material of her brassiere.

For a long moment I just sat there motionless holding those massive tits and then mother leaned forward again and whispered, "They won't bite you, you know ... play with them if you like. Fondle them!"

In a daze I slowly began to move my hands, outlining the shape of her breasts. I don't know if she misunderstood my awe and wonder at actually getting my hands on her jugs in real life, but she seemed puzzled by my inactivity. Maybe she misinterpreted my slow savouring of the sensation of actually feeling my own mother's tits, as some kind of reluctance on my part to touch them. Whatever the reason she seemed to become impatient that I didn't appear to be enjoying her breasts in the way I should have been (as other men had I suppose).

Suddenly she crushed my hands into her chest, and leaning forward again she hissed at me, "Enjoy them for God's sake! Be rough! Be hard! Grope me!!"

Fired by her words my hands began to move freely, squeezing and fondling at her chest.

"That's better," she murmured out loud. "But don't be so gentle. Take what you want. How often do you get a chance like this? Make them yours, plunder them!"

I groped harder and rougher, and somewhere deep inside I began to understand she was probably enjoying this as much as me

"Oh yes Baby," she moaned suddenly. "Now get inside my bra ... get inside mummy's bra ... tear it off! Tear it off baby!! Feel mummy's breasts ... hold them ... pinch them. Be mummy's dirty little baby!"

I was genuinely shocked by this sudden outburst, but so egged on by her unexpected encouragement and enthusiasm, that I launched a full front assault on her chest. With one hand I violently pulled down at her bra, and with the other I grasped at the emerging flesh, crushing the whole breast under my hand. I squeezed and massaged it, amazed at how soft and yielding it was. As her bra slipped down in the melee I grabbed the other breast too, and lay forward against her, my hands squeezing and fingering at the hard nipples, crushing and mauling at her magnificent boobs.

But of course it was all too much for me. As my face fell forward into her bosom, and I squeezed both her breasts against my cheeks and licked and nuzzled at her chest, my loins prepared to let go of their cargo. Instinctively I half wrapped my leg around her thigh and half pushed against, half mounted her, in an effort to maximise my pleasure. Then, like a rutting dog, I came in a scream of uncontrollable lust, filling my pants with my own juices.

But almost immediately I realised I'd gone too far. Suddenly I felt both guilty and caught out. If I'd cum so quickly she must realise I'd been very turned on all the time, and not as disinterested as I pretended. Would she put two and two together and work out I'd been conning her? In a panic I leapt up and ran from the room and stumbled up the stairs.

But it seems my mother was so caught up in her own lust and excitement at what she'd encouraged me to do, that for several moments she didn't quite know what had happened. I didn't realise it at the time, but her eyes had glazed over (as they did when she was sexually aroused), and her mind had drifted off into some timeless point in space. She'd been so worked up and turned on, she didn't even understand I'd blasted my rocks off ... and as she came back down to the reality of our humble living room, she was trying to work out why I'd left so suddenly.

Sometimes your luck's with you and sometimes it isn't. Sometimes the world bites you in the balls for no apparent reason at all, and sometimes its unbelievable generous and forgiving. This situation was a pretty good example of the latter. My Mother, you see, did what she always seemed to be doing in those days; she jumped to the wrong conclusion. One moment I was there, mauling at her breasts as she'd commanded me to, and the next I had cried out and run away.


Analysis: I was horrified at what she'd made me do, I hated it, and I had run away in anger and fright.

Conclusion: It was her fault for forcing me to do those things to her too quickly and too dramatically. She should have given me time. Instead she'd just made the situation worse. She'd done more harm than good and she'd left me in even more fear of women.

Possible Solution: Apologise immediately and try and make it better. Somehow....


When I reached my room I immediately stripped off my trousers and underpants. In a panic I stuffed them under the bed, to be disposed of later, and I stood there breathing hard and wondering what to do. I half expected Mother to come storming up the stairs, angry and vengeful. Should I get dressed and go down again? Or should I stay in my room ... and barricade the door?

In a flash of inspiration I stripped off the rest of my clothes, tossed on my pyjamas and leapt into bed. I lay there, covers pulled up to my chin, wondering what the hell would happen next.

After about five minutes there was a soft tap on the door.

I'd calmed down a bit by them, and the softness of the tap seemed like a good sign.

"Yes," I half mumbled. "What ...?"

"Peter?" She called, sounding anything but angry. "Peter ... can I come in?"

Oh shit, I thought to myself, what do I do, what do I say?

"Why?" I whispered, stalling for time.

"I need to talk to you ... please!?"

I didn't seem to have any choice. "Ok, come in then."

Slowly she opened the door and stood there looking at me with a crestfallen look on her face. She'd straightened her bra and done up a couple of the buttons on her blouse, but I could still see most of the top half of the bra, and one of her big bra-covered tits poked accusingly out from the side of the blouse.

"I'm so sorry ..." she whispered, dropping her head in shame.

OK, so I'm not the brightest character in the world, but I'm not so slow on the uptake that I can't see a trolley-bus standing in front of me. So it only took a few micro-seconds of mental readjustment for me to reply.

"It's ok ... I know you were only trying to help".

She looked up with a semi-relieved smile and took a couple of steps towards the bed. As I mentally patted myself on the back for my intuitive brilliance, she looked mournfully down at me.

"Yes, I only wanted to help," she sighed. "But I've made it worse. Haven't I?"

Immediately spying the trolley-bus again, I understood this situation could go in several directions depending on how I answered her question. It seemed important enough for me to give a few moments thought to what I was going to say. She was obviously blaming herself for something. Maybe I could do more than escape from this situation, maybe I could turn things around and get her back on the track I wanted to follow?

Her faced dropped as she waited for my reply. She seemed terribly concerned, scared stiff she'd done something from which there might be no way to recover. As I watched her face, and read these signs, I was furiously thinking of how I could turn what had at first seemed like a disaster into something just a little bit more promising.

I guess you could say I'm a bit of bastard really.

"Yes mummy, I think you have made it worse," I said slowly (and perhaps rather wickedly).

"Oh ..." she said simply, and as I watched, tears started to form in her eyes. "Oh, Peter I'm so so sorry."

"Doesn't matter," I mumbled as gracefully and condescendingly as I could. "T'll be ok."

She took a couple of more steps towards the edge of the bed and looked at me enquiringly. I nodded, and she sat down.

"What can I do Peter?" she began. "What can I do to make it better? Tell me. I'll do anything ... anything at all. I can't leave you like this."

I felt a warm glow in the pit of my stomach which, after a moment's thought, began to descend towards my loins.

"I ... I don't know," I said.

"Did you hate touching me? Was it really that bad?"

As I heard these words I suddenly saw the road ahead very clearly. 'Stupid bitch!' I thought to myself, and the warm glow slowly entered my cock which immediately began to rise to its former glory.

"No ..." I murmured thoughtfully. "I didn't hate it exactly."

She looked at me expectantly, her eyes almost pleading me to say something positive, something that would ease the guilt and pain she was feeling. Naturally I did my best to oblige.

"It's not really that I didn't like it. I suppose if I'm really honest, I think perhaps I did like it. It's just that ..." I paused, more for effect than anything else.

"What?" she whispered, bending herself down towards me, and giving another splendid view of her monstrous bra. "What was it?"

"It felt wrong," I whispered so softly that she had to lean even closer to hear me. "... wrong that I should be enjoying touching a woman, seeing her ... and feeling her in ... in that way."

"Oh Peter!" she said, tears now of relief running down her cheeks. "It's ok to like it. That was the idea; you were supposed to like it. I wanted you to like it, damn it!"

"But ..." I murmured, my eyes still taking in as much of her tits as possible.

She took my chin in her hands and lifted my head up to face her shining eyes. Begrudgingly I looked up from her chest.

"No 'buts' Peter," she said. "There's no need for 'buts' ... honestly there isn't."

"But," I insisted. "You see, I ...I wanted to see and feel more ... more of you. Is that wrong?"

And before she could answer I added, "It is wrong ... it is, isn't it?" just to make sure she had no way back.

"No of course not," she smiled, happily skipping down the path I was laying for her. "It's normal, absolutely normal. I want you to WANT women, to want to touch them. That was the whole idea. Don't be so silly."

"But you're my Mother ..." I said, carefully guiding her to a particularly important fork in the road. "Surely it's wrong to want to look at your Mother ... to want to touch her ... touch her bosom ... her legs ... her stockings?"

For a moment she didn't reply, and everything seemed to hang evenly poised in the air. I held my breath. Had I gone too far to actually mention her stockings? Was I being too damn clever by half?

And then slowly she reached down to the hem of her burgundy skirt and pulled it back several inches, revealing the tops of her fashioned stockings. She looked up at me and smiled, and thankfully all I could see in her eyes was still just relief.

She leaned down to my ear and whispered very gently, "if you want to see your mummy's stockings, want to touch them, want to play with them, then I think that's wonderful."

I smiled up at her, and my smile broke into a broad grin (I couldn't help it). "Honest mum?"

She took my hand and placed in on the top of her stocking and rubbed it gently across the material.

"That's nice ..." I whispered.

"You can touch me there ... touch me anywhere ... anytime you want."

With both my heart and my penis brimming with joy and anticipation, I slid my hand up her leg and under her skirt. I did this half because I wanted to, and half just to see what would happen.

She parted her legs slightly, allowing my hand to slide up to feel the tops of her stockings. I sighed softly, and she parted them further, allowing my hand to slide down sideways between her legs. As she sat there, still smiling warmly at me, I pushed my hand further up and embraced that wonderful junction where nylon becomes flesh. And then I pushed up further still, until I touched her in that most intimate of female places.

Touching her there was like pushing a button. Suddenly she stood up and reached for the side zipper on her skirt. In a moment the skirt had fallen to the floor and I was treated to my first full uninterrupted view of her stockings and suspenders. Even today that memory makes me shiver and go hard. I simply stared in wonder at such a magnificent sight.

It was like something out of a men's magazine. Her legs seemed so long and so glamorous, and the way the soft sheen of her stockings darkened upwards into thicken rows of nylon, to become the broad impenetrable brown of her stocking tops, simply made my eyes pop out on stalks. What is it about dark stocking-tops that are so provocative? They way the nylon shades and thickens, to be suddenly and abruptly contrasted against the pale skin of her thighs and the white straps of her suspender belt, was (and is) just so amazingly sexy. The neatness and delicacy of the material combined with the nakedness of her skin is just so unbelievably intimate. It was like she was uncovering her soul to me. Somehow it's all so quintessentially feminine, representing everything that is instinctively alluring about a woman. The suspender clips, for example, placed so carefully and so correctly around the stocking-tops, lifting and holding each stocking perfectly, and (I suddenly noticed) each clip even had its own tiny but perfect satin cover. It was all so fascinating, so sweet, so delicious ... and so bl**dy fucking sexy!

Since that day I've looked at lots of pictures of women in stockings, and I tell you my mother knew how to wear them properly. The mental picture I have of her, suddenly revealed in all her delicate, intimate, and erotic detail, is living tapestry that will always burn bright in my mind and in my soul. And in the centre, between her wonderful stocking-clad legs was that shrine of womanhood, that elusive forbidden place my fingers had momentarily glanced upon.

For a while she stood there patiently, clearly aware of the effect her stockings were having on me, and then she slowly moved towards me, until her womanhood was almost touching my face. I swear I could smell both her heat of her cunt and the scent of those stockings! Gently her hands lifted and embraced my head, and ever so softly she pulled me in to her body until my mouth was against the vee between her stockings. What else could I do but kiss at the panties that covered her vagina?

I heard her sigh a deep sigh of genuine happiness and pleasure, so I pushed my tongue up and under and behind the panties and right against the crest of her vulva. For a moment I think she was shocked because she tried to retreat slightly, but my hands had already reached up behind her to feel her buttocks and the back of her stockings, and I gently pulled her forward again and pushed my tongue in even deeper.

She made a small noise, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and my hands found the top of her panties and began to slowly draw them down. As I drew my tongue back for a moment to allow the panties to pass by, she began to run her fingers through my hair and at the same time encouraging my face closer and deeper into her body. My exploring tongue thrust itself insistently into the crevice between her legs.

And then, quite suddenly, she pulled back, and she said breathlessly, "no ... no baby, mummy will get carried away."

I wasn't really sure what she meant, and for a moment I thought this amazing evening was coming to an abrupt end. But then she pulled back the covers from my bed and sat down beside me, and her fingers dropped lightly on to my rock hard penis, and I knew the best was yet to come (cum?).


She sat there on the bed looking at me with a broad self-satisfied smile on her face, her hand on my cock and her stocking-clad legs stretched out in front of me. I could see by her look that she felt she'd saved the situation, and my hand reached idly out to play with her suspender clips.

But there was another look lurking in her eyes. It was the smug look of someone who knows what's coming and is totally convinced you're going to love it! She was obviously eminently pleased with herself. I must admit I was quite pleased with her too!

She lifted her hand from my cock for a moment and silently removed her blouse. Still smiling right into my face, she reached behind her back to undo her brassiere. As she did so those enormous horizontally moulded mountains of hers were thrust momentarily into my face, confirming what I'd already guessed, that from now onwards I would be fated to be permanently turned on by 50's architecture!

Unexpectedly she discarded her bra with a theatrical gesture, flinging it behind her, and I watched in awe as her wonderful Montezumas dropped, shivered, and hung surprisingly pertly in front of my eyes. She was obviously breathing out deeply and thrusting her breasts skywards at the same time, just for effect, but I didn't care. Apart from that view of her stockings and suspenders, I'd never seen anything so wondrous and majestic in the whole of my short life. They hung close to my face like some vast and towering edifice, an awesome testament to the beauty of nature. You can keep your 'Grand Canyons' and 'White Cliffs of Dover' mate ... give me a thunderous pair of jugs any day of the week!!

As I lifted my trembling hands to slowly embrace her bosom, I felt her hand sink softly again on to my cock, and the moment of contact between my hands and her breasts was almost spoiled as I was f***ed to struggle to stop myself ejaculating unreservedly into her warm hand. That's how good it was.

However, as I'd cum only recently I managed to control myself, and my attention switched back to simply embracing the texture, resistance, and shape of her tits. Her soft, squidgy-yet-firm flesh rested gently in my palms, and the feel of those globes in your hands is an experience you got to be sex-starved young man to really truly appreciate. My hands closed around them in sheer unadulterated lust and sexual joy.

"Would you like to suckle at mummy's breasts," she whispered. "... Suckle her little tities?" And at the same time she gave my cock a gentle little squeeze of encouragement, and began ever so slowly to rub her hand up and down the shaft.

"Ohhhh!" I moaned, as some part of me wondered how on earth she could call them 'little', and I lowered my head down towards a dark prominent nipple. As my lips closed around it, I sucked it into my mouth and lathered and caressed it with my wet and greedy tongue.

With her free hand (the one that wasn't intimately measuring the dimensions of my cock), she embraced my head and pulled me harder into her chest like feeding a baby. She caressed my brow and my hair and I could hear her muttering softly, almost to herself.

"That's my good little boy," she whispered. "Suckle at mummy's breast. Take your fill baby, take it all from mummy. Mummy loves her baby, mummy do anything for you ... anything at all. All you have to do is ask. What a good boy you are," and so on.

It was all almost too much again, and I suddenly had to drag my lap and my cock away from her hand to stop myself cumming. Instantly she lifted my head away from her chest.

"What the matter baby ... you want to stop?"

For a moment I didn't really know what to say, or how to put it. Then I whispered, "I'm ... I'm going to do it ... you know ... if you keep touching me there."

She looked at me with adult amusement. Then her expression changed to one I didn't recognise.

"We can have baby doing 'it' in mummy's hand, now can we?"

For the first time that evening I felt myself starting to blush. But she laughed a small tinkling laugh, and bent down and whispered in my ear. "Not in mummy's hand baby, oh no, no! Mummy wants you to do it ..." she stopped, leaned back and looked me right in the eye. As she did so her lips quivered, and her mouth began to open very slowly. For an instant her tongue appeared and moistened her lips seductively. "No baby," she went on. "Not on my hand ... not in mummy's hand ... you must do it here ... in mummy's mouth!"

As she said this her mouth opened wide and her lips pouted at me.

How I didn't blow the lot there and then I just don't know. It was touch-and-go I tell you. My cock lurched wildly, and the look on my face must have been a real picture. I didn't say anything ... I mean, what the hell could I say! And with a flicker of her eyelashes she began to lower her head towards my cock, which incidentally was standing to attention like a concrete pole.

I forgot about her tits and I forgot about her stockings, I just stared in wide-eyed wonder as her mouth lowered itself gently towards my unbelieving penis. She didn't kiss it, or lick it, or smell at it, or anything. He mouth simply enveloped my member, like a snake swallowing a mouse, sucking it in until it disappeared from sight.

I thought that this was as good as it gets. I thought maybe I hadn't really woken up at all this morning, that in the night I must have died, and as I'd been such a good boy I'd gone straight to heaven. And here was an Angel showing me what heaven could really offer you. None of your stupid wings and harps stuff! No, heaven was a mother who sucked your cock into her mouth because SHE wanted to do. Heaven was a mother not only letting you CUM in her mouth, but insisting you did!

But I was wrong, it wasn't as good as it could get. As she closed her velvet mouth around my tool she began to love to it, to worship and adore it. Her tongue wrapped itself around me and stroked me in a way her hand never could. Her head began to move rhythmically up and down my shaft, and somewhere deep inside I thought to myself that there really must be a God.

She swallowed the whole length of my cock, right down to my pubic hair, and she was sucking, deep and gentle, without seeming to take a breath. I felt like my cock was wrapped in a warm velvet sheath; tight, yet as soft as silk. There were no clumsy or uncertain movements (and I never once felt her teeth), and her tongue curled tighter and tighter as her head lifted and fell. She seemed to be sucking away all my fear and uncertainty, and lifting not only my body but my heart and my soul to a new unknown level of joy.

And then I exploded into her mouth, and as I did so her movements changed, and her lips and mouth and tongue tightened still further and massaged and clung to my cock, drawing every possible drop of liquid and pleasure from my organ and into her mouth. Her head pushed down as my thighs instinctively pushed up, and I fucked and fucked at her face until my cum and my passion were utterly spent.

And then she lifted her head from my penis and raised it to my face. I saw white creamy dribbles of cum dripping from her lips. Her tongue reached out and greedily retrieved them, sucking them into her mouth and swallowing them noisily down. And just when I thought I'd see it all, her hand reached up to the bits left dripping on her chin, and she scooped them up and massaged them into her face like face-cream.

"You taste delicious," she said, as if she really meant it.

I simply stared at her. This was my mother I was watching, rubbing my cum into her face, and telling me how nice it tasted. I couldn't believe it, I just could not believe it ... and for once in my life I was totally at a loss for words.

She sat there for a moment, and then she smiled at me a crooked evil smile. "Now that's what I mean when I say a woman can be exciting. Isn't that better than ... well than anything else?"

"Oh my God mother!" I said. "Oh my dear lord ..."

But then I had a sudden thought. Perhaps I shouldn't be too enthusiastic. I mean she might think the job was done!

So I took a very deep breath, calmed myself as much as possible after such an experience, and said, "I ... er ... suppose it's better than ...", with as much uncertainty as I could.

She looked at me hard. "Than what?" she asked with a puzzled frown.

"Than not ...with a woman," I ventured.

She said nothing but continued to stare at me.

"I mean ..." I continued, struggling to find the right words. "I mean, don't get me wrong. It was fabulous, absolutely wonderful. It's just I'm not totally 100 per cent sure yet."

And then I saw the daylight dawned on her face ... but perhaps a little too brightly for my comfort.

"I see ..." she said in a sudden knowing voice. "You want some more, is that it? Another session ... just to be sure?"

I grinned sheepishly. "Well, just to be sure?"

"Hmm ..." she said thoughtfully. "I don't think you're being entirely honest with me."

With a sinking feeling I tried to bluff my way out, but she put her finger to her lips to indicate that I should be silent.

She looked at me for a long long time, saying nothing. And then she sighed deeply.

If you remember I left off my previous tale after Mother had shown me how 'exciting' a woman can be. If you also recall, I'd tried to minimise just how much I had been knocked out by her sexual antics, hoping to prolong the experience beyond one night. I'd been afraid if she found out I wasn't as 'gay' as she'd thought, she'd feel the job was done. But although she'd indicated to me at the time she was prepared to continue her sexual instruction, it was clear by the next day things had taken a turn for the worse.

I guess she'd mulled over what happened (and what she'd allowed me to do), and realised (perhaps for the first time) she was encouraging her only son to commit i****t with his own mother ... and maybe that wasn't such a clever thing to do. She'd thought maybe she'd over-reacted to her suspicions of my homosexuality. Maybe if she'd just left things alone I'd have reverted to being a normal healthy heterosexual male. Certainly my apparent response to her advances, and to her revealing her body to me, indicated I was nowhere near as far gone as she'd thought. In fact it soon became clear she'd made a horrendous mistake. Rather than her advances turning me back into a normal 'male', maybe she'd done the complete opposite and thrown me off the rails good and proper.

As I have indicated, mother was never the sharpest knife in the draw, but she was at last starting to understand you can't offer your luscious body to your own son - you can't encourage him to cum in his own mother's mouth - without some consequences resulting. In my case these consequences can be summed up as a new and overwhelming desire to 'shag the living daylights out of her' at every opportunity!

At breakfast the following morning, for example, I'd sneaked up behind her whilst she was frying some eggs, slipped my hands under her arms and grabbed both her tits. At the same time I'd embedded my hard cock in the fold of her dressing gown. Looking back one could hardly call my actions 'subtle' or 'cautious' or even 'measured', and I guess a long night of dreaming about fucking my delicious mother in the mouth had proved too much for my normal reserved approach. All I wanted to do at that moment was rip her clothes from her body, throw her on the floor, and shag her for all I was worth! I wanted to enter her for the first time, to fuck her properly.

She, however, wanted none of it!

When I'd grabbed her breasts she was so shocked she'd actually screamed, and the two half-fried eggs in the pan did a double-somersault and ended up as new decoration for the kitchen tiles. She's spun round, pulled her gown tight across her body, and looked at me in sheer horror.

"PETER!" she screamed. "What are you doing?! What on earth do you think you're doing!?"

"Oh ..." I'd muttered. "I'm ... I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd mind. I thought ..."

"Well think again young man! I am not some TART you can grab whenever you want! I'm your mother for Christ's sake!"

I knew then that everything had changed. What had once been untouchable - and then as if by magic offered to me on a plate - had become untouchable again. Still, I did feel she'd over-reacted a bit. I mean I was only doing what I'd been freely encouraged to do the previous evening. It hadn't been wrong then; how come it was so bl**dy wrong now? I have to say I felt a bit pissed, and just a little justified for feeling pissed.

What I hadn't realised of course, was how turned on mother had been by what had happened the previous evening. After she'd gone to bed, she'd lain there and masturbated herself to sl**p. But when she'd woken in the morning her lust had faded and been repressed, and (as lust often does) had magically turned itself into guilt. Ever since then she'd been castigating herself - flaying herself with an imaginary birch twig - and showing herself what a terrible thing she'd done. She was now explaining to herself in no uncertain terms that not only must she never let it happen again, but she must seek to undo the damage by pretending it never happened in the first place.

Complicated people women ... especially mothers!

Anyway, I was too young to realise any of this, so I just turned around and stomped off back to my room. Not only was I mildly offended at being shouted at, I was deeply miffed to realise I wasn't ever going to get another opportunity to see mother's tits, let alone get into her cunt!

But in the days that followed I couldn't quite let go of the memory of that incredible night, and I began to wonder if there was a way of turnings things around again ... of getting my hands back into mother's underclothing. There had to be some way.

Needless to say I masturbated furiously at every opportunity to memories of that night; to visions of her breasts and her stockings, and most of all to the sight of her mouth engulfing my cock. After a couple of weeks I convinced myself that so much masturbation can't be good for you, and the sheer single-minded intensity of my lust led me to believe I had to find a way back to her body (if only to stop myself going blind!). Time was not on my side, however. Father would be back in a month, and whatever I was going to try had to be done soon. If it didn't happen before dad came back, it would never happen at all. But after a couple of days of compulsive thought about the problem I started to come up with a few ideas.


Now if you remember my previous tale, I'm not exactly Attila-the-Hun when it comes to being bold and f***eful. In fact I'm a bit of a wimp. My idea of standing up to mother in her authoritative mood was to go to my bedroom slowly (rather than instantly), and to stamp my feet a bit on the way up. Not very dominant I admit, but then this was the fifties, and if you remember I'd learnt to be passive rather than actively masculine. The point being my first ideas about getting round mum tended to follow this line. I thought maybe if I asked her nicely, or if I kept nagging her, she might just let me 'cop a feel' of her tits.

So over the next few days I tried to make peace with her, but at the same time let her know I still wanted (needed even) some 'sexual' contact. One of my first ploys was to beg her forgiveness (as if I'd done something terrible), burst into tears, and when she'd hug me to reassure me, my hand would tend to creep up around her breast area.

However we always seemed to end up with conversations that went something like this:

Me: "You don't hate me mum, do you? I'm so sorry. I just knew it was wrong ... but you said it was alright."

Mother: "No, I don't hate you Peter ... of course I don't. I know it wasn't your fault but it's done now so let's just forget about it."

Me: "But I can't forget about it mum, I feel so guilty. I ... I ... I'm so so sorry ..."

Cue the tears.

Mother: "Oh Peter, Peter, please don't. Here, give me a cuddle."

She would then take me in her arms.

Long pause.

Mother: "NO Peter, don't put your hand there. I've told you before, you must stop touching me! PETER, move your hand ... NOW!!"

My hand would drop from her breast ... usually on to her upper thigh.

Mother: "For God's sake stop touching me where you know you shouldn't. I'm your mother. You mustn't touch me like that. Please, Peter, please try not to do that anymore."

Me: "... but mum I can't help it. I love you so much. Please let me cuddle you ... just for a bit."

Mother"NO!! You're not getting any more 'bits' from me! For Goodness sake c***d, pull yourself together. Whatever happened, whatever we did is over, and it's not going to happen again. And that's final!"

And so on...

After a week of conversations that were variations of the above theme, I came close to giving it up as an impossible goal. One night, however, when I was idly fantasising about screwing mum stupid, I suddenly understood that my position wasn't quite as weak as it seemed. Indeed, if I could find it in myself to be a bit more 'f***eful', I did have something really helpful working for me. That something, I realised, was mum's guilt.

Ignoring for a moment my minor (if lustful) role in all that had happened; it was mother who had chosen to do it. Alright she'd been extremely concerned about my sexual orientation, and all she'd wanted to do was help, but she was the one who made the decision to act ... ergo it was all her fault. If she'd been wrong all along about me being gay, and not stopped to think through the consequences of throwing her luscious body at her own (healthy and sexually active) son, then the consequences to her son were all her responsibility.

Now the important point here is there was genuinely quite a lot of truth in this. If I was becoming obsessed with the prospect of fucking my own mother, who could blame me? You wouldn't blame me, would you? I mean what healthy young boy wouldn't be driven mad by having his own mother suck his cock and willingly swallow his semen. So if this poor young fellow was driven over the edge by such a 'shocking' experience, well then mum only had herself to blame. Right?


The only problem left was how to turn all this to my advantage - how to play it. I mean I'm not Laurence Oliver, and I couldn't be expected to engage in any deep method acting. I had to keep it simple, whilst at the same time making her see she couldn't just stop what she started, as if nothing had happened. After all it was only natural I wanted to mount her ... wasn't it?

Having come up with the outlines of a plan I invested another couple of days in thinking through how best to exploit my advantage. Eventually I realised the fact there was some truth in all of this was my best ploy. I would be honest with her ... well sort of honest (I didn't want to get too carried away). I would let her know I was obsessed with her body (true enough) and try to persuade her that the only way to cure this obsession was to let me have my way with her (marginally less true!). I suppose you could call it a sort of 'fuck therapy' ... or preferably a 'bang the hell out of mother at every opportunity' therapy!

OK, so it doesn't sound too plausible put like that, but it was worth a try. I mean ANYTHING was worth a try to touch those monstrous tits again ... and to finally lay my cheek on her stocking-tops. In fact that bit was going to be much harder than it sounded; she simply didn't wear stockings around me anymore. Still 'nothing ventured, nothing gained' as they say, and by that time there was only a fortnight left till dad came home, so I knew it was now or never.


It was a Friday (in late November) and we had a potentially quiet weekend ahead. I remember thinking to myself at lunch-time that 'tonight's the night', and going over in my mind what I was going to say. I screwed myself up as much as possible. After all it was new territory for me. I wanted to break out of 'wimpsville' and become a real man. In the event I had no idea just how far I was eventually going to push things with mum, and it was certainly true that by Sunday night I could call myself a 'real man' (although in the circumstances to call myself 'a true gentleman' would have been stretching the truth just a shade too far).

At about eight o'clock that evening, when mum was sitting on the sofa watching TV, I slipped into the lounge and stood by the door. Her hair and make-up were immaculate as usual, but she wore a thick baggy sweater and brown slacks (with a bit on the end that attached round the sole of the foot ... if you remember such things). The point being she no longer appeared attractive or feminine in any way. I remember noting to myself I'd have to find a way to change that look. After all even her breasts failed to stick out significantly like they usually did. The sweater was one lumpy mess around her chest area, and hid from sight one of life's most important visual experiences. How could anyone allow a woman with breasts like that to hide them away? Even the uplifting mould and shaping of her fifties bra failed to push them significantly through the foggy clouds of that damn sweater. (If only I'd known how the future would pan out, with all women's brassieres reducing in shape and size to mouldy old bits of virtually non-existent nylon. What a life!).

My heart was beating fast, but I confess I wasn't feeling exactly confident. In fact I felt like an impotent fool, trying to take on something way beyond his current years and experience. After a moment mother noticed me and turned to look at me.

"What's the matter?" she asked with a quizzical look.

"Can ... can I have a word, Mum?"

She gave me a suspicious look. "Why? What's the matter?"

I thought back to that night several weeks ago when it had all been so different. Then she was smiling, encouraging me to come forward and talk - now all I could see was hostility. But I walked into middle of the room, took a deep breath, and launched into my pre-planned speech.

"I've got a problem Mum, and I really need to talk to you about it. I know you won't like it ... you won't like me for mentioning it ... but I have to talk to you. I have to or I shall go mad!"

She looked intently at me, still suspicious. But with a resigned sigh she finally said.

"OK, come on then."

I went over and sat on the sofa, tactfully keeping to the opposite end so she wouldn't start off too defensive. I sat there silent for a moment, until she raised her eyebrows inviting me to begin.

"What happened, what we did on ... that night. It has affected me I think."

Nice start, I thought to myself, seemingly innocent but with an implicit accusation.

"Affected you?" she whispered. "How? How has it affected you?"

"I'm not sure," I was trying to keep it all as vague as possible. "I seem to have become obsessed with ..."

"With what?"

"... With you Mum. I ... I can't stop thinking about you. I dream about you every night. All I want to do is hold you close to me ... and kiss you and caress you ... and love you."

OK, I thought, that's good, keep it sweet and innocent sounding.

"Oh," she said almost to herself. Then she looked at me for a long time without saying anything.

She looked so sad and, as a tear began to form in to corner of each eye, I almost decided to call it quits and go back to my memories and my dirty books ... but I didn't.

At last she said. "I'm sorry. I must have been mad to do what I did. I can't believe it. I thought I was helping, but all I did was abuse my own son. Dear God, forgive me. What can I do, how can I make things right. Or is it too late?"

I wanted to say something like, 'well, you could show me your tits for a start', but decided maybe that wasn't quite appropriate yet, so I kept silent

"There's no way back is there?" she mused, still seeming to be talking to herself rather than me. "You can't unmake yesterday. I only wish I could. I would give anything to go back and make things right again between us."

"Are things wrong ... between us?" I asked, not sure if I was being too innocent or too daring.

"Of course they're wrong. You shouldn't have these ... these ... sexual feelings towards your own mother. It's wrong, it's bad ... it's unhealthy. And it's all my fault!" She ended with a lame sob.

I had an overwhelming desire to go over and give her a cuddle. It was an innocent desire (well almost innocent), but I thought it better to keep my distance for the time being. I'd lost a lot of credibility recently by using any excuse I could to get near enough to give her tits a quick grope, so I thought it best not to undermine the good work I'd done so far.

"I'm sorry Mum, I can't help the way I feel," I said in a sympathetic voice, but knowing full well I was rubbing it in.

"I know, I know," she whispered. "I ..." She stopped suddenly.

For some reason I had a premonition she'd been about to say, 'I feel the same way', but dismissed the notion as wishful thinking.

She was weeping softly now, and after a couple of minutes of loaded silence she finally said. "So ... so what are we going to do?"

"I ... I don't know," I said.

Then, taking a predetermined leap, I added. "Maybe it's not such a bad thing. Maybe we could sort of ... sort of work it through?"

"Work it through?" she repeated with a puzzled voice. "What do you mean, 'work it through'?"

She was silent for a moment, clearly thinking about what I'd said ... and then the shit hit the fan.

She leapt up from the sofa and screamed at me. "PETER! PETER! YOU STUPID STUPID c***d! Have you heard nothing I've said? Don't you understand what we've done ... what I've done? How can you say such a thing? What's the matter with you ... are you mad!? How can you suggest that we ..."

She spluttered as she ran out of words, and her face started to go red and blotchy. For a moment I thought she was going to explode!

"i****t!" she shouted at last. "I've committed i****t with my own son! I will be damned forever ... I could go to prison! Your life is ruined; you're never never going to get over it! And what's your solution for Christ's sake!? What's your solution? You want me to fucking WORK IT THROUGH!!!"

'So what's wrong with that?' I thought to myself, but wisely I kept silent.

"I don't believe you!" she went on, still ranting at me. "You just don't understand, do you? All you want is to touch me ... to get your filthy hands on my breasts! You can't think of anything else. Nothing else at all. You're totally obsessed with sex. You've no idea of the enormity of what we've done. No fucking idea at all ..."

I have to admit I was a bit startled by her anger (and her language). I felt like I'd lost my chance in a big way. I confess I was even starting to feel just the tiniest bit guilty (if you can believe it!).

Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. I had no idea what to say or how to respond, and mentally I began to wave goodbye to ever getting a chance to finish what she'd started. I had a sudden vision of her legs, dressed in those magnificent stockings, fading into the distance. I felt disappointed, gutted ... and then somewhere deep inside I began to feel just a little bit angry. What right had she to take away such a fantastic experience?

Suddenly, all by itself, my brain slipped into gear.

"You're right I am obsessed," I hissed at her. "Of course I'm bl**dy obsessed! That's why we're having this conversation, remember?"

To my surprise she went quiet and flopped back down again onto the sofa.

"Yes ..." she murmured vaguely. "Yes, of course, you're right. I ... I'm sorry. I feel so bad about what I've done. I feel so guilty. But I shouldn't take it out on you, should I? Of course you're obsessed with me and my body ... that's the whole damn problem isn't it?"


As we sat there in the lounge in silence, I realised my over-simplistic 'therapy' plan was never going to work. However I didn't feel entirely deflated. My unexpected success in calming her down made me feel stronger somehow. I no longer felt like a c***d who has no power and has to do exactly what he's told by the adult. Mother was clearly at a loss. Confused, racked with personal guilt, she simply didn't know what to do or say. As I sat there watching her, I could see pain and uncertainty mirrored in the expressions flickering across her face. She was clearly tearing herself to bits inside her head. Eventually she began to cry, and as she stared blankly ahead, tears rolled down her cheeks in ever increasing rivers of sorrow and distress.

Now those of you who've followed my story so far will know I'm not necessarily the nicest person in the world. I'd taken advantage of Mother on more than one occasion. Indeed it could be argued I was as much to blame for this situation as she was. You'd think, however, given her current broken state of mind, I would take this opportunity to help her. You'd think I'd want to make her feel better - that I'd want to reassure her, and relieve the doubt and fear and uncertainty tearing her apart. I was her only son after all.

But, you'd be wrong.

Rather than seeking to help her, my wicked, cunning, and sex-obsessed little brain was exploring the idea of using her current state of mind to get what I wanted. She was down for the count. She was broken, confused, and lost. And looking at it from my point of view (and of course from the purely logical, rational, point of view), this was in fact the perfect time to 'throw her to the wolves' ... or in this case to just one wolf ... me!

I sat there in silence for a moment, and then a familiar warm glow started to tingle in my loins. Suddenly I knew exactly what to do. It came to me all in a flash, fully formed and clear as crystal. I felt a sudden rush of power. I was in control of this situation, not her!

I looked at her face, smiled innocently, and then slid along the sofa and took her in my arms.

She instinctively pulled back.

"No," she whispered through her tears. "It's best if you don't touch me ... ever again."

"But I want to touch you Mum," I said gently.

"Peter, no," she said pulling back even further and becoming alarmed.

"It's too late for that. That's what you said. Remember?"

"No, keep away," she said pushing me back with her elbow.

"I can't Mum ... I don't want to."

She started to get up but I grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. She struggled for a moment but I wouldn't let go, so she turned to angrily face me.

"Let go of me this instant! How dare you grab me like that! If you don't let me go right this instant I'll ... I'll..."

She stopped in the middle of the sentence, and I looked at her with a knowing smile on my face.

"Yes?" I said. "What will you do exactly? Call the Police? Tell Dad maybe?"

I watched her closely, revelling in the feel of my new-found power. I could see the realisation of where I could go with this slowly dawning in her eyes. She sat there stock still for several seconds, her mouth open, the tears frozen in her eyes. Then she made as if to speak, but stopped and said nothing. She closed her mouth again and blinked at me. A look of horror and disbelief began to form on her face.

With a feeling of triumph and satisfaction I let go of her arm, and relaxed back into the sofa. I think I actually grinned at her. I knew now I had her where I wanted at last ... but rather than pouncing straight in for the kill, I decided to play for a while. After all I was enjoying myself.

"So tell me," I asked quietly. "What d'you think Dad would say if you told him? I guess he'd be angry. He'd have a real go at me wouldn't he?"

She said nothing, just sat staring at me with real fear in her eyes.

"But then again I don't think he'd be too happy with you either ... would he? In fact it's just possible he may be far more angry with you than with me. Don't you think?"

"You ... you wouldn't," she whispered, but so softly that for a moment I wasn't sure what she'd said.

"I'm sorry?"

"You ..." louder now. "You wouldn't ... tell him ... would you? You wouldn't ... sink that low?"

And there it was. Obvious now as I look back. I can't think why I didn't see it sooner. I had all the control I needed.

All that was left now was to negotiate the terms.

"I might ..." I said, crossing my legs in a dignified manner and folding my hands across my lap. "I might just have to ... you never know."

Did I say mum wasn't the sharpest knife in the tray? Well maybe, but in this instance she saw it all without any prompting or explanation. She knew where I was coming from, she knew where I was going ... and she knew very clearly what I wanted. With a long heavy sigh, she sat back on the sofa and looked upwards towards the ceiling. She shook her head in a gesture of defeat and lay back against the pillow. Slowly she closed her eyes.

After a moment of silence she said simply. "So what exactly do you want?"


Now a curious thing happened at this point that took me a little while to get my head around. My terms were actually quite simple. She had to do whatever I wanted ... for one weekend (I'd worry about next week on Monday!). But once the terms had been agreed, Mother seemed to subtly change in some way. All the anger and rage and frustration seemed to vanish in a moment. It was like she had accepted it all instantly. In fact it was more than that, it was like she didn't mind anymore. I was puzzled and more than a bit dismayed.

It was only much later I realised what probably happened. I think I'd taken away her choice in the matter, and with it went the guilt. Whatever happened now wasn't her responsibility, and as there was nothing she could do to stop it happening, it simply wasn't her fault. Moreover, I think in some dark and secret part of herself (as I've indicated before) she wasn't that adverse to a bit of 'nooky' with her young, attractive, and handsome son (well, good looking son anyway!).

As I said, at the time I didn't understand what was happening (I mean in those days I wasn't even sure if women enjoyed sex or not!). All I could see was the power I'd just acquired, inherent it the threat to 'shop' her to dad, mysteriously ebbing away. I should have been in control: she should have been a puppet in my hands. But it just wasn't like that, and I confess I was slightly disappointed. There was of course still the prospect doing all those dirty and disgusting things to mother I'd always wanted to do, so I just tried to make the best of it. I mean you can't win 'em all, can you?

As I sat on the sofa mulling all this over, mother was upstairs getting changed. I'd told her that for this weekend at least the 'baggy' look was out. I wanted pointed boobs and fully-fashioned stockings. I also wanted her to make herself look as elegant and attractive as possible. In fact what I wanted was an 'untouchable look'. A smart sophisticated female that was as far out of my league as it was imaginable to get. Making such a woman, especially when she's your own mother, into your own personal sex-slave, that's about as erotic a fantasy as you can have (well, at my tender age anyway).

I'd first noticed the change in power relations, however, when she'd made some suggestions about how she should look. She'd suggested, for example, black seamed stockings rather than brown, and what about stiletto heels and a really red shade of lipstick ... oh, and a slit up the side of the dress?

I confess I was a bit put out by this sudden enthusiasm. I mean this was supposed to be MY fantasy for God's sake, not hers!

I kept trying to get back control by telling her things like, "you damn well dress how I tell you, when I tell you. You understand? You are going to do whatever I say tonight. Whatever I want. Is that clear?"

But she'd say things like: "yes dear I understand. I have agreed to do this for one weekend only ... would you prefer suspenders or a Basque?"

I mean, damn it, it just undermined the whole power thing. It's like I wasn't doing it TOO her, but more like I was doing it WITH her. She was supposed to be my sex slave, not my bl**dy fantasy advisor! I was quite pissed for a while I must admit ... but as I had no real idea how to get the power back, I stopped worrying about it after a while and concentrated on just being as lustful as possible.

All that said, she looked pretty stunning when she came back downstairs. She was wearing a smart two-piece black suit, cut just below the knee, and with the merest hint of a white stripe in the cloth. Her heels (the tallest I'd ever seen) made her legs look long and slim and elegant. Her hair was pulled back and up, and she had some small black feathers in the centre of her hair overlaid with black lace. She wore a necklace made of large pearls, and two small chains of delicate pearl earrings. Her lips were bright red and her face carefully crafted to look mature, sophisticated, and attractive. The top buttons of the suit were left undone and her massive breasts thrust the lapels apart to reveal a glorious cleavage. She was every inch a desirable but untouchable woman.

She walked over to me, her heels clicking on the wood floor, and stood there with a half-stern look on her face.

"Do you approve ... Sir?" she asked in a 'professional' sounding voice.

My cock was rock hard and my mouth dry with excitement, and for a while I didn't know what to say or how to react.

Then I took a deep breath and whispered hoarsely. "No! I Don't."

I could see she was looking at the bulge in my trousers, so I guess she knew I didn't really mean that. She reached up and undid another button revealing even more of her breasts.

"Is that better Sir?"

I nodded in approval. Then I said. "The skirt is too long. Pull it up a bit ... and turn around."

She eased her skirt up a couple of inches above the knee, revealing the black edge of her stocking-tops, and turned slowly around. I stared in awe at her seams, climbing straight and true from the top of her heels right up the immeasurable length of her legs to the back of her thighs.

"Higher ..." I croaked, and she lifted the skirt another three inches to reveal the back of her black stocking-tops. I stared intently, taking in the details of how the seam finished in a little circular hole in the blackness of the nylon.

"Turn back," I whispered.

She turned to face me, keeping her skirt marginally above the stocking-tops, and standing tall and proud, and kind of defiant. Her breasts and dazzling cleavage were thrust outwards in all their magnificent glory. My mouth dropped in sheer wonder at the vision before me, and without even realising it my hand found its way to my cock and started to rub it gently.

"Do you want me to do that ... Sir?" she whispered, looking down at my hand.

I nodded, but after a moment's thought I said, "Remove the skirt first ... Bitch!"

I'd added the last word just to try and rack up the control side of things a bit, which I guess I was still fretting about. It sounded dominant and irreverent to call your mother a 'bitch'.

Slowly she undid the clasp of the skirt and slid the zip down. She stood there for a moment, her hand holding the side of the skirt. Then she just let if fall to the ground, and after brief pause (presumably for effect), she lazily lifted a long high-heeled and stocking-clad leg out from the crumpled remains. I watched in total fascination, my mouth having this annoying tendency to keep falling open. Very slowly and carefully she lifted the other leg up and over the skirt and stood patiently before me.

The top of the jacket reached down to just below her panties. Below was this amazing expanse of leg and nylon. The heels had the magical effect of making her legs look impossibly long, and my eyes seemed caught in the act of following each leg up and down. They were so indescribably fascinating, from the sharply pointed heel of the shoes and the black supporting band across the ankle, right on up the tight sheer nylon of the stockings, to the dark ribs of those instinctively erotic and sexually exciting black stocking-tops.

They were so close to me now I couldn't resist the desire to reach out and touch the material. As I laid my hand on her thigh and eased it gently up towards her stocking-top, I realised the material felt as exciting as it looked. It had this strange soft yet harsh texture that was exhilarating to touch. It felt silky smooth under my hand, yet it snagged the rough skin on the end of my fingers as they wandered lustfully up, as if trying to prevent my i****tuous hand from travelling too near the forbidden places above. My God, I thought to myself, this stuff must be as exciting to wear as it is to feel.

After a few moments my other hand joined its b*****r, and they both lustfully explored every inch of her nylons, right up to the straps hanging down from her garter belt. I don't know how long this went on. As my hands roamed up and down her stocking-clad legs, I seemed to be immersed in a timeless world of erotic fantasy, based on visual stimulation and the exotic sensation of touch. I was lost, hypnotised ...'away with the fairies'.

Mother waited with infinite patience until I had fully satisfied my desire to feel, caress, and fondle her legs, intimately attired as they were in those exquisite stockings. She seemed curiously unconcerned, as if my fascination with her hosiery and my need to touch her body were entirely normal and perfectly acceptable. Only later did I realise how rare it is to find a woman who really understands the needs of a man.

Eventually my cup was filled to overflowing, and my hands dropped down and away from her legs. As if this were a sign, she slowly sank to her knees in front of me and reached to undo my trousers. I leant back in the sofa, intrigued to see what would happen next.

Methodically, and with what seemed like practised hands, she undid the buttons and parted my trousers. To my surprise she lifted my buttocks and slipped my trousers to the floor, and then proceeded to remove my shoes and socks. Before I quite knew what had happened, my underpants followed and I was sitting there bare-arse naked, my cock sticking skywards like a miniature totem-pole.

For a moment she sat back on her heels simply studying (or maybe admiring) my cock, and then she reached out with both her hands and embraced it gently. She held it firm and straight as her head lowered down, and she kissed the crown with the tenderest of kisses.

"Mmm ..." she murmured softly, as if to herself. "So beautiful ... you are so beautiful."

For a while she gently played with my penis, rubbing it slowly and kissing and licking it, all the while muttering soft words of praise and admiration. The sensation of her warm tender hands on my dick was exquisite, and I lay back against the sofa, head on one side, watching in fascination. I remember thinking to myself that she seemed to be enjoying doing what she was doing almost as much as I enjoyed receiving it.

Then, slowly and gently, her lips parted and she took me into her mouth. As before, her tongue was like velvet: warm and moist, and so so soft, and yet with a definite texture that brushed sensually against my cock. Her head began to move rhythmically up and down, sinking lower and lower with each downward movement, engulfing more of me each time, until I couldn't understand how she managed to take so much in. The sensation was awesome, and I felt my balls straining and beginning to boil.

But I didn't want to cum in her mouth. This time I wanted something else, something more. Gently I took her head in my hands and lifted it upwards. With her mouth still open, she looked up at me with a quizzical look on her face. I smiled at her and shook my head.

"Not this time mummy," I whispered.


I wasn't sure how keen she'd be to take things further than just oral sex, so I didn't give her time to think about it. In a flash I was up on my feet. I steered her around me, and half pushed, half-lay her down on the sofa, and before she knew what was happening I was easing myself down on top of her.

"No ..." she breathed in my ear. "No Peter not that, please."

Needless to say that's what I wanted to hear. I felt the power coming back just the way I liked it, and it really turned me on. I put my hands on mother's shoulders to hold her down and lowered my lips on to hers. As I crushed my lips down I pushed out my tongue, trying to f***e a way into her mouth. For a moment she resisted, but then her mouth opened and we kissed passionately.

At the same time, my hands scrabbled down to find her breasts, and I crushed them against her body. In a fit of frenzied passion I grabbed the jacket of her suit, which was still done up with a couple of buttons, and ripped it apart. The buttons flew off, and as I pulled back slightly to enjoy the view, I realised for the fist time she was wearing a tight black Basque. Her breasts were crushed in to the top of the Basque so tightly they looked like squashed balloons. I ran my hands around her waist, enclosed and contained by the hard material of the Basque. The feel of this new and different garment was almost as exciting as her nylons. My hands ran up towards her breasts, and I roughly pulled down the part of the Basque that contained those wonderful melons, exposing them fully to my lustful gaze and my rabid hands.

To my minor annoyance, instead of fighting me Mother squealed and stretched herself out, forcing her breasts upwards and into my grasping hands. I grabbed them and squeezed as hard as I could. Mother cried out, but apparently not in pain. Indeed, rather than resisting, she started rolling her body around, giving me as much access to her breasts as possible. She seemed to be enjoying (indeed loving) the punishment I was dishing out to her. I tried pulling and ripping at the Basque but it was firmly attached, so I returned to her breasts, and like an a****l I snapped at her bosom with my teeth, actually biting one of her nipples. As I crushed them with my hands and licked and sucked and bit at her breasts, she again cried out, but again she didn't seem to be begging for mercy ... far from it!

As my passion increased I began to f***e her legs apart with my knees. I reached down with my hand and felt in between her legs, exploring an area of female anatomy I knew little about, except via the odd dirty photo I'd seen at school. It felt warm and hairy and wet. I slid my fingers along till I found the gap and inserted a finger into her vagina.

"I gonna fuck, you dirty old bitch!" I whispered into her ear.

"No!" she breathed. "Don't fuck me ... I'm your mother. You can't fuck you own mother. It's too ... too dirty."

I thought for a moment she was resisting me and I'd have to f***e her to comply, but then as she went on whispering I realised these words we not for my benefit at all ... they were for hers.

"Don't do it Peter ..." she moaned. "Don't put your big cock in mummy. Don't fuck your poor mummy. It's ... its i****t. It's wrong ... so wrong and so dirty. What are you doing to me? You dirty dirty little boy ... fucking me ... fucking mummy. Fucking your own poor mummy ..."

She was, of course, turning me on just as much as she was turning herself on, and I struggled to pull her panties apart to get access for my cock. Then I found her hand beside mine, taking hold of my penis and guiding it into her cunt. After a moment of frantic fumbling I felt myself enter her, suddenly and deeply. She moaned loudly, and I think I did too.

It was a strange sensation, entering a woman for the first time. She was warm and tight and moist, and it felt somehow natural. Almost before I knew what I was doing I found my cock thrusting in and out, and as my hands reached up to cover her breasts, her hands reached down to take hold of my buttocks.

"DO IT THEN, YOU SHIT!" she shouted in my ear, at the same time forcing me so deep into her cunt I was sure it must hurt. "FUCK ME YOU LITTLE BASTARD ... FUCK ME!!"

But I didn't need to be told. I was ramming my cock home with all my strength whilst at the same time clawing and clutching at her tits. I could feel her cunt muscles contracting around my cock, and she was squirming and moaning at me.

"Harder you Bastard!" she breathed, her hands behind my buttocks forcing down every stoke. "Harder ... fuck me harder. Fuck mummy ... fuck your mummy!"

Suddenly she seemed to slide down on the sofa, and I found her legs up and encasing my torso. My hands left her breasts and felt for her stocking tops, and with each thrust I rubbed my hands over the material revelling in the sensation of the nylon. Slowly I seemed to get into her rhythm, banging down as she thrust up.

"Bitch!" I moaned, as my passion increased. "This ... is ... what ... you ... get ... mummy ... bitch," I intoned to the rhythm of my thrusts, my hands now tearing at her stocking-tops.


One of my hands returned to her breasts, and I fingered and squeezed at her hard dark nipples. As I crushed one between my finger and thumb she moaned loudly.

"You're mine," I hissed breathlessly in her ear. "Do you understand, you're my bitch ... my CUNT!!"

"NO ..." she wailed. "DON'T DO IT ... NOT TO MUMMY!" But as she said this she was heaving herself up to meet every downward thrust.

"BITCH!" I repeated. "YOU'RE MY CUNT ... MY MUMMY-CUNT!!"

As I shouted this I felt a finger suddenly pushed up and into my arse. It was sweetly painful, intimate, and unbelievably erotic. Not surprisingly I roared, climaxed, and came in a vast flooding torrent, filling her body with my milky seed. My back arched up and I thrust so deep I seemed to f***e her right into the sofa. Three or four more times I rammed my cock in as hard and as deep as I could.


And then she too went rigid, and I thought for a moment her legs were going to break me in half. She squeezed and squeezed, rolling me around between her thighs, and drawing every last drop of pleasure from her orgasm. Did I say I wasn't sure if women liked sex or not? Well after that experience I had a pretty fair idea that maybe they did.


The rest of that weekend, and indeed for the following two weeks, mother initiated me into all the pleasures of the physical body. I slept with her in her bed, and I was woken each morning by her velvet mouth taking advantage of my morning erection, and preparing for its daily dose of fresh cum. She gave me whatever pleasure I wanted, but she also taught me how to pleasure her. Most evenings I would practice with my tongue, learning just how magical it is for a woman to have a hungry and willing acolyte exploring every nook and cranny between her legs.

I fucked her cunt, I fucked her mouth, and I fucked her tits. She would have let me fuck her arse if I'd wanted, but in those days it didn't appeal. We fucked everywhere we could think of around the house, from the kitchen floor to the back lawn to the garden shed, and even in the dirt and cobwebs of the attic.

I also found (to my delight) she had something of a taste for a little bit of f***e. She taught me to place my hand across her mouth and hold her arms above her head as I fucked her, whispering all the time about how 'mummy had to do what she was told' and 'take her medicine'. I really liked that one - the power thing I guess - and I was willing to oblige whenever she felt like it (See, I'm quite a nice person really!).

During the day (when we weren't playing games) I'd usually only allow her to wear her big bra, her high heels, and her suspenders and stockings (assuming there was no one else about of course). She'd have to be my slave, and come at my beck and call, and submit to my wandering hands whenever I felt in the mood (which was usually all day every day!).

As I said, she let me do whatever I wanted (Indeed in all my life I've never met a woman as sexually uninhibited as my own mother). She didn't even mind me engaging in my favourite fantasy. I'd dress her up real smart and posh, tie her hands behind her back, and then I'd 'interfere' with her in any way I fancied. She'd have to just stand there and take it. Of course she'd weep and wail and beg me not to, but that was part of the game. I'd play around her a bit, pretending to be too afraid to touch, then I'd get braver and put my hands on her breasts (always snuggling in that incredible fifties bra). I'd touch her legs, and slowly run my hands up her stockings till I found her stockings-tops. Sometimes I stick my head up her skirt and hug and kiss her in all the best places. Finally, to her wails of despair, I'd forcibly fuck her whilst she was fully dressed and tied up ... and begging for mercy!

All in all those two weeks were a real education. Sadly, however, things changed when dad came back. I could look but I was banned from touching. I was obviously pretty cut up about that, and life seemed incredibly empty and pointless. Indeed I was reduced to masturbating as my only means of achieving sexual satisfaction.

It's a hard life isn't it ... but I bore it bravely.

I mean, after all, father was a travelling salesman, and he was away for three months every year, so it wasn't like it was the end of the world or anything ...


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