Short sex stories

Erotic fiction and short sex stories




A Broken Heart and a Wilted Rose

A loving son helps his mother through a bad time with an incestuous relationship.

It's been three long years since my Dad died on of all days Valentine's Day. Coming home from work, he had a flat tire and when he leaned down to jack up the car, a drunk driver in a pickup truck hit him head on doing more than 80 mph. The police said there were no skid marks. The driver never hit his brakes, probably never saw my Dad until impact, until it was too late to swerve.

They found his trunk in a ditch nearly a mile down the road. My Dad never knew what hit him. Thankfully, he died instantly. He was in too many pieces to have an open casket viewing at the wake.

It's surreally tragic that he survived his double tour of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan to die by the hand of our version of a suicide bomber, a drunk driver. The driver of the trunk was knocked unconscious and was bloodied and bruised, but alive, otherwise he would have left the scene of the accident, no doubt. It would have been just another hit and run and the police, probably, never would have found him.

He served only a year in jail for dui vehicle manslaughter. The outraged community, with the support of Mothers Against Drunk Driving, petitioned the legislature to tighten the drunk driving laws in our state because of him. Named after my Mom, they called it Rose's Law, since the tragedy happened on Valentine's Day and because my Mom's name is Rose.

Already free to continue living his life, he served his time, but my Mom and I still suffer through the aftermath of his crime. Our lives have never been the same without Dad here. A comforting solace to us, the good die young was never any truer than with the loss of my Dad. A loving husband, a cherished father, and a good friend, he's missed by all who knew him.

I never had the chance to tell my Dad that I loved him. Away at war, he wasn't there to watch me play baseball or to see me graduate high school. Now, without a Dad to go to when I have a question about girls or to watch a ballgame with, I'm lost. I'm angry that he was taken from me so soon. I miss him. I really miss him. I thought once he came home from overseas, once he had returned to the normal routine of his life, that would be the last time that he wouldn't be there for me and now he's gone for good. It's not fair. It's just not fair.

My Mom hasn't left the house since my Dad died that fateful day. His death emotionally paralyzed her. She's a basket case. Fortunately, he didn't leave her destitute. He left her some life insurance, enough to pay off the mortgage on the house, get rid of the credit cards, and pay off her car. After what she gave to her lawyer to prosecute the case, she also received a six figure wrongful death settlement when she sued the man in civil court.

Yet, money is not what makes her happy. She'd return all the money, if it would bring back my Dad. She misses my Dad, her husband and her best friend of nearly 20 years. At only 37-years-old when he died, she was too young to be a widow.

She's been in a deep depression since my Dad died. I took her to see her doctor and he prescribed some pills, only the pills he prescribed made her sleepy and nauseous. I took her to see a psychiatrist and he prescribed more pills, only the pills he prescribed made her too happy. Then, she crashed and tried to kill herself by taking all the pills.

When I found her unconscious, I called for an ambulance. The doctor at the emergency room pumped out her stomach and then signed the papers to put her in the psyche ward for 30 days observation, standard for a suicide attempt. When they classified her as catatonic, they wanted me to sign the papers for them to keep her, but I refused and brought her home instead.

First my Dad and then my Mom. Maybe that was selfish of me, but I didn't want to be alone. Now, she doesn't take any pills. She just sits and stares out the window, as if watching and waiting for my Dad to come home. I wonder, can she die of a broken heart?

It's bad enough I lost my Dad, I can deal with that over time, especially since he's no longer here. It gets a little easier as the years go by, but I have my bad days, too. Only, losing my Mom is different and more difficult. She's here, but she's not. For some reason, maybe it's a sound, a smell, or just a familiar thought that she has, but she's more lucid and responsive some times more than she is others.

Most times, she's non-responsive, catatonic nearly. Looking right through me, she looks at me without seeing me, and doesn't answer when I talk to her, most times. I know she's in there, somewhere, but every day that passes, I can't help but feel that she disappears a little but more.

I talk to her, even though she doesn't answer me. I take care of her, even though she doesn't know all that I do for her. I continue to love her, even though she no longer tells me that she loves me. I don't know what else to do but to continue doing what I've been doing hoping one day she'll snap out of it and return to me from where she is.

The doctor asked me to sign the papers to commit her, again, but I've seen the inside of that place. I went there to visit her and to pick her up and take her home, after she was confined there for 30 days. It's a horrible place and I can't help but feel that she's better off at home. I've read stories and seen investigative reports on television to know how, too often, they don't care for the people who stay there. They care more about the money than they do about the person.

How could I do that to her? How could I leave her in a place like that? If I was the one catatonic, if I was the one who had been in an accident and paralyzed or non-responsive in the way she is, she wouldn't do that to me. My Mom would care for me at home, just as I care for my Mom.

I'm her only hope of improving and of getting better. Maybe she'll never improve. Maybe she'll never get better. Maybe this is as good as it gets, while she slowly gets worse, until she fades away and dies one day, which is why I ask, can someone die of a broken heart?

Only, what kind of son would I be if I didn't even try to help her? How can I just give up on my Mom? She's my Mom. I only have the one.

Now, three years after the death of my Dad, my Mom is only 40-years-old. She's still young and pretty. She'd be a target for sexual abuse by both patients and employees of the institution that housed her. I shudder to think of her being raped and/or sexually abused after what she's already been through with the death of my Dad. Besides, most of the people in those institutions are old, ugly, and ready to die. My Mom is just depressed is all. Surely, it's just a temporary condition and she'll snap out of it, I hope. Won't she?

Even though the doctor tells me different, I can't help but feel that she's better off here with me and with someone who loves her. She's my Mom. I can care for her. I'm willing to do whatever it takes for her to get better. Only, it's hard, sometimes, most times. I no longer have a life because of my Mom.

To be dealt this hand at my age, losing my Dad and now hanging on to my Mom unwilling to let her fade away and disappear into herself, is hard for me to endure. It's just as selfish of her to do that to me, to withdraw, as it is for me to want to keep her here with me. Hoping to help her, the doctors tell me differently. They told me that she needs round the clock medical care in an environment that specializes in such emotional conditions. Yet maybe I'm wrong or naive but leaving her locked in her room or keeping her around a bunch of screaming crazy people is not what I call round the clock medical care.

Fortunately, she's able to wash, dress, feed, and go to the toilet herself. I'm glad I'm spared all of that. I'd have to commit her, if I had to totally care for her, as if she was an invalid or a baby. Able to find a job where I work from home, at least, I don't have to leave her alone for extended periods of time. I'm here for her.

Only, I don't have a life. My life is now consumed by my Mom. Yet, I have needs, too. I'm young. I'm lonely. I'm horny. All that will have to wait, until my Mom gets better.

I replay that day, as if it happened yesterday and it's always worse when it's the anniversary, in the way that it is now again. Valentine's Day is supposed to be about love and life not sadness and death. My Dad had called my Mom to tell her he'd be late, that he had a flat tire. He told her he loved her and that he had a surprise for her. They had talked on the phone only a few minutes before he died.

He bought her roses, her favorite flower. She loves roses, maybe because her name is Rose. He had a heart shaped box of chocolate candy, too, with a romantic card. My Dad was thoughtful like that. He never missed her birthday or anniversary and always bought her good stuff at Christmas. Valentine's Day was special to them. The Sheriff delivered them all to my Mom after they gathered the evidence they needed, collected my Dad from the highway, and towed away his car.

Valentine's Day was the day they met at a Valentine's Day dance for singles and Valentine's Day was the day they married, just a year later. Now the day forever marked by their wedding anniversary, Valentine's Day, once a special day to them, is now a horrible reminder of my Dad's death to me. Somehow, if you had to weigh the checks and balances of life, it was somehow befittingly tragic that the good Lord took my Dad on Valentine's Day, too, after so much of their life happened on that day.

Maybe there's some sort of divine reason that you're only allowed so much happiness in life before the other shoe falls and crushes you because they were happy. My Dad and my Mom were really happy. They laughed a lot. She was just so happy to finally have him home safe and in one piece from the war and he was happy to be finally home with her and with me again.

Only, I don't need for God to take my Mom, too. I don't want to be left alone, even though I feel so alone when I'm with my Mom now in the unresponsive way she is. The quiet is the thing that drives me crazy, which is why I always have the television on night and day. I'm hoping something on TV will jar my Mom back from where she is.

Hope is the thing that keeps me going and the reason why I care for my Mom in the way that I do with the personal sacrifices that I make. I hope she'll get better. I hope there's an internal switch that clicks on, just as it clicked off, when she fell into her silent funk.

I'd commit her, I would, if the doctors could tell me what was wrong with her and how to fix her. Only, they tell me that they don't know enough about her condition and about the brain to really know how to restart her and how to bring her back. I can't help but feel they'd do more harm than good by keeping her in that crazy place. She's not crazy. She's just sad is all.

As it is now without my Dad, my life would be worse without my Mom in it. Even with my Mom in a nearly vegetative state, it's still better than not having her here at all. Even if she doesn't answer me, I can still talk to her. Much in the way that a loved one can talk to a coma patient, I know she can hear me. If you ask the relative of a coma patient, they'd tell you they'd rather them there than dead. They'd rather have hope than not. That's how I feel. I feel just like that about my Mom.

Maybe that's selfish of me. Maybe she'd blossom in an institution where she'd receive round the clock care, only we don't have that kind of money to get the kind of round the clock care that she needs. The places that we can afford, more along the idea of a nursing home over a mental care facility, would only drain what little money we have, until the money was gone and she was pushed out in the street to fend for herself.

I even bought her a dog, hoping that the dog would cheer her up and he did, somewhat. She reaches down to pat him, gives him food and water, and lets him out back to do his business in the woods. Caring for the dog has helped her care for herself. She smiles at him in the way she used to smile at me.

He's just a mutt I got from the pound, but he's a good dog. He's half Golden Retriever and half German Shepherd. She's smiles and looks at him, every time she pats him, so I know that the dog has helped heal her, if only a little bit. Dogs are good like that in helping people.

She named the dog Danny for the son she never had, but always wanted, she said. Only, I'm Danny. I'm her son. I'm the son she had.

Did she forget that she has a son? Doesn't she remember me? Doesn't she know who I am? So, we call the dog Danny. It's a bit disconcerting when she calls the dog because I always think and hope she's calling me.

"Danny! Come boy. That's a good dog."

Maybe it's a sign that she's getting better, but at least she's talking more now. A recent phenomena, my Mom now calls me John. I suspect she thinks that I'm Dad, her husband now. I don't know if that's good or bad. Yet, when you've been sunk down so deep in the mud, you look at any change as a good sign.

I'm afraid to take her to the doctor for fear that he'll want to commit her. She's all that I have, besides the dog. What would I do without her? I'd be sick with worry not seeing her every day.

Except for her thinking that I'm Dad, she seems better. She's more animated. She smiles more, laughs, even. She's been talking to me more and her appetite has improved. She even goes out back with the dog, something she'd never do, go outside, before. I'm starting to see signs of how she used to be.

Maybe it's selfishly unrealistic to feel that I can help my Mom. Maybe I'm the crazy one to think that I can care for someone who is so mentally ill but, to me, it's better that I have her here with me in the flesh than not at all. Even though it's been three years, I'm still mourning, too, over the loss of my Dad. My Mom, even in her unresponsive state, helps me with my grief. At least, I can pretend that we still have a relationship and there's always that chance with my love and help that she'll get better. I pray to God she will.

So, now, for me to have some sort of normal relationship with my Mom, I pretend that I'm my Dad. Where she didn't hardly speak to me before, at least she's talking to me now. I'm not a psychiatrist, but I take that as a healthy sign. Even if she's in denial over her reality by not accepting my Dad's death and thinking that I'm him, it's still better than how she was before.

Only, I don't know what year she thinks this is. I took down the calendar and, fortunately, she always hated watching the news. She found the news monotonously depressing. We don't have a computer living out here in the sticks, so she can't go on that. She doesn't watch much television, expect for movies. She likes movies, old movies. I suspect she's living in the past, maybe a time before I was born.

When my Mom went in for her nap, I left her alone to go to the store. I was only gone for a few minutes. Her naps last about three hours, so I had plenty of time. I stopped at the florist, the card store, and the candy shop and bought her the things that Dad would have bought her on Valentine's Dad, roses, a heart shaped box of chocolates, and a Valentine's Day card. I've been doing that every year, since he died, even though she never notices.

Maybe it's wrong to pretend that I'm him, but isn't it better than watching her slip more away? Isn't it better than visiting her on weekends at the mental hospital? Isn't it better that I'm here to help her when she's unable to help herself?

I put them all on the table, the flowers, the candy, and the card, waiting for her to awaken and when she saw them, she was so excited. Finally, she noticed. She brought a tear to my eye. She was just like my old Mom.

Only, it was then that I realized she was gone. It was as if she was someone else and I was a bystander watching her life continue without me there in my normal role as her son. I couldn't help but feel that I was an actor playing a role, the role of my Dad, instead of feeling the love that I needed to feel from my mother, as her son. I imagine this is how the relative of an Alzheimer's patient must feel.

"Oh, how nice," she said. "Thank you, John, for the flowers, the candy, and the card. Happy Valentine's Day, dear," she said leaning in to me and giving me a kiss on the lips.

Her kiss startled me and I was so excited that I hugged her. My Mom just kissed me on the lips. She hasn't done that since I was a kid. Oh, shit, I thought and it was then that I really started to worry.

She thinks I'm Dad. She really thinks I'm Dad. I mean, I never really thought about the consequences of her thinking that I was my Dad. I was just so happy that she was talking to me again. I really didn't consider the intimacy or the sexual role of having to pretend that I was her husband.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Rose," I said continuing the ruse by trying to act more like Dad.

Hoping that by acting like Dad, she'd realize that I wasn't her husband and that would snap her out of it, I decided to continue the role playing. Using the only psychological training that I had taken from sitcoms and reality TV, it sounded good to me. Only warning signs and sirens were flashing in my head.

If you're not a trained professional in psychiatry, don't try this at home. Maybe by pretending to be my Dad, I was making her disconnection worse. Maybe by forcing her not to confront my Dad's death, I was removing her further from reality.

Fortunately or unfortunately, whichever the case may be, but a weird phenomena happens when you suffer a tragic loss, such as a death in the family. All the friends and relatives, who wouldn't go home after the funeral and who brought you food and hung around offering their help and support, are all gone. There for you then, now no one calls and no one comes to visit us, anymore. In this case, however, that was a good thing because how would I explain my reasoning to them that I pretended to be my Dad?

I felt a bit ridiculous pretending to be my Dad. What did I know about being married? Yeah, sure, I knew my Dad and my Mom, but only as my Dad and my Mom and not as a husband knows his wife. At twenty-one years old, I was still wet behind the ears. I didn't even have a girlfriend. I hate to admit it, but I'm still a virgin. What sexual life I should have had ended, once my Dad died, when I was 18-years-old and saddled me with my Mom.

The only time I've had sex is with myself, by my own hand, and late at night when I have a wet dream. The only women I've seen naked are the ones in Playboy and Penthouse. I'm pathetic. All my friends are in relationships, living with a woman or married even, and here I am still living at home with my Mom.

My Mom has taken up my life. My life is no longer my own, but an extension of my Mom's life, as her caregiver. First my life was taken up with my Dad, worrying about him when he was in Iraq and Afghanistan, and then grieving for him after he was killed by a drunk driver that consumed my life, and now it's all about my Mom. Helping her and caring for her, while hoping and praying she'll get better, takes up most of my day. I look forward to the day when my life will be about me.

I'm not complaining, well, maybe I am complaining. Only, I don't know if the help that I'm giving her is helping her or hurting her. It's so frustrating not to know. No one knows. No one can tell me definitively.

Maybe I should have her committed. Maybe she'd be better off around other people who have the same problem. Maybe she needs a support group, one that has group therapy, something that I can't give her.

"I'm going to make you your favorite dinner," she said. "Shepherd's pie and for dessert, chocolate pudding with real whipped cream and a cherry on top."
I quickly made a mental inventory of the groceries I bought last week and fortunately, I had all the ingredients she needed.

"That's great," I said. "I can't wait."

She hasn't cooked since my Dad died. Surely, without a doubt, even if she thinks I'm Dad, this is a good sign.

"And tonight, I have a special surprise for you."

Special surprise? What can she possibly have as a surprise for me? Other than to walk around out back with the dog, the woman never leaves the house.

We had a wonderful dinner and my Mom actually talked to me during dinner. It was like old times, albeit a bit bizarre by the conversation with her thinking that I was her husband. Some of the references she made were things that my Dad and she must have known about, but nothing that I would know. So, I nodded my head pretending I knew what she was talking about, even though I didn't have a clue. I understood some of the other things by what else she said and I was able to give her an appropriate reply.

"You go in the living room," I said, nearly calling her Mom but I caught myself, "Rose and I'll clean up here."

"Would you like to watch a movie?"

A movie? Wow. My Mom loved movies. This is just like old times, before Dad died. When Dad was away at war, Mom and I spent our nights watching movies.

"Sure," I said. "That would be fun, Rose."

Only, when I walked in the living room, after having cleaned up the kitchen, I couldn't believe my eyes. My Mom had already changed into a very sexy and very revealing nightgown. Where did she get that? Always walking around in a flannel nightgown with a bathrobe over it, I never saw her wear that nightgown before. Maybe it was something she wore only when she was with my Dad and in the mood.

Oh, shit, shit, shit. Hello? Happy Valentine's Day. Now what do I do? I'm in big trouble now.

Maybe when she wore this sexy nightgown, this was her signal to tell my Dad that she was in a romantic mood. Oh, fuck. Maybe she thinks I'll give her sex. Eww. Gross. No way! Sorry, I can't go there. As much as I want sex, as much as I would love to experience a naked woman, as horny as I am, having sex with my Mom is just not right.

I looked at her. I couldn't take my eyes off her. With her hair let down and cascading all about her shoulders, she was so beautiful in her little nightgown.

Maybe this was my Dad's favorite nightgown. Like father like son, it sure is mine now that I see it. Seeing her dressed or undressed like this, I couldn't help but peek. Actually, I couldn't help but stare.

Except for the time when I walked in on her when she was just getting out of the shower, I had never seen so much of my Mom's body. For a 40-year-old woman, she's pretty hot, sexy actually. To be honest, I know it's wrong, but I still masturbate to the thought of having seen my mother naked. Yet, this was different. Seeing her sitting there on the couch like that, while wearing that revealing nightgown, was so much more erotically sexy than having seen her naked.

Her nightgown was red and very sheer and I could see the outline of her boobs, her areolas, her nipples, even her pubic hair. Immediately, I could feel my cock stiffen. This is nuts. I was lusting over my mother, my pretend wife. I felt like such a pervert. For having such incestuous thoughts, I'm the one who needs a psychiatrist, not her.

She was sitting on the couch when I entered the living room. The movie was on pause ready to begin. Afraid to sit anywhere in the room, where I had a continued view of my Mom's semi-nakedness, I sat in Dad's old chair, a chair that was positioned parallel to the couch and that faced the television and didn't face my Mom. It had been a chair that I had avoided and had been afraid to occupy, since my Dad died.

"Come sit over here with me, John," she said patting the couch cushion.

Reluctantly, uncomfortably, and awkwardly, I sat beside her. I can't remember the last time I sat beside my Mom like this, never when she was practically naked. I used to always snuggle with her when I was a kid and the warmth of her body felt good against my body. Yet, now, with her so open and sensually sexy, thinking of her more as a desirable woman than my mother, she brought new meaning to the word snuggling.

She had loaded her favorite movie, The Postman Rings Twice, not the original with Lana Turner and John Garfield but the remake with Jack Nicholson and Jessica Lange. Then, she lifted my arm, placed it around her shoulders, and snuggled in beside me. Because of the thin material of her nightgown and because she wasn't wearing a bra, I could feel the side of my Mom's breast pressing against my ribs and the weight of her tit resting on my forearm. Then, when she rested her hand on my thigh, I was becoming aroused. For fear of touching something that I shouldn't be touching, I was afraid to move.

Caressing and feeling my thigh, she moved her hand higher and higher, until her hand rested on my erection. I froze. My Mom's hand rested on the bulge my cock made in my jeans. Alarm bells rang through my head. Oh, shit. I couldn't believe my Mom was touching my cock through my jeans. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. I know it was wrong, but I pretended that I didn't notice her hand.

It felt eerily good but, oh, so forbidden and wrong to feel her hand there. Then, it happened. My cock involuntarily pulsated and my Mom gently squeezed my erection before slowly rubbing it with her open palm. Every time she squeezed and rubbed my cock, it pulsated and every time it pulsated, she squeezed and rubbed my cock. Again and again, we continued the process. She squeezed and rubbed and I pulsated.

Her hand in contact with my penis felt like something I have never experienced before. It felt so much better than when I touched myself. I never thought that anything could feel as good, as when she touched me. A bittersweet moment, feeling that I was doing something so very wrong, I was sickened with excitement.

An involuntary impulse, I had no control over my cock. It was as if it had a mind of its own and it wanted my Mom's hand. It didn't help any that my Mom wanted to feel, squeeze, and rub my cock, as much as I wanted my Mom to continue touching me.

God, what am I doing? What am I thinking? This is my Mom. I'm taking advantage of my emotionally distraught Mother. This is so wrong, only, I was so young and so horny. With my mother pressing her breast in my ribs and resting her breast on my forearm, while wearing that practically see-through and, oh, so sexy red nightgown, there was only so much self-control that I had. Then, when she squeezed and rubbed my pulsating cock with her hand, it was all just too much for me to take.

Yet, better she squeezes and rubs my cock than the cock of some perverted orderly in a mental hospital. Better that my Mom gives me sex than having forced sex with a stranger or a group of strangers. Better that I see my Mom in her sexy nightgown than having her exposed to men who wouldn't love her in the way that I love her. No matter what justification I considered about having sex with my Mom, it was still wrong.

Exerting what little control I had to diffuse the situation, I tried adjusting my position so that her breast wasn't in full contact with my ribs and forearm and her hand was more on my thigh than on my cock. Only, whenever I adjusted my position, she adjusted her position moving closer to me and putting herself in the same position she was before. I was trapped. There was only so much self-control that I had and the heat from my Mom's nearly naked thigh was heating my libido.

Then, she started touching the head of my cock through my pants with her fingertips. Oh, my God. Never have I felt anything like that before. She had masterful fingers. It felt so incredible for her to touch me like that. I looked down and watched her touching me through my jeans. She knew just where to touch me for me to get the most sexual sensation. It was maddening. It took all the control I had not to pull my cock out and allow her to have her way with it.

I know it was wrong, but I was enjoying it. Every time she fingered the head of my penis, my cock pulsated and grew harder and every time it pulsated, she touched it more. No woman has ever touched my cock and it felt so good when my Mom touched my penis.

Yeah, sure, I've had dates, but the death of my Dad prematurely ended my personal life and the last three years have been devoid of women and devoted to my Mom. Fortunately, my Mom stopped fondling my cock and concentrated more on the movie. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't enjoy it. I'd be lying if I said I didn't wish she'd continue touching my cock.

Only, she made me so very horny. I needed to jerk off. I needed to go to my room and masturbate over my mother fondling my cock through my jeans after having seen so much of my Mom's body. Sitting beside my Mom, while she wore practically nothing, was making me insane with incestuously lustful thoughts. I couldn't help but look down her open nightgown top at her boobs.

"I'm going to get ready for bed, Rose," I said pulling away from her and standing.

I was tired anyway and I couldn't take sitting that closely to my Mom any longer. She was making me so horny and I was afraid that things could escalate. I was afraid she may expect me to have sex with her. I was afraid of what might happen next.

"Okay, sweetie. I'm going to stay up and finish watching the movie," she said.

Fortunately for me, my Dad and Mom didn't sleep in the same bed. My Dad and Mom had separate bedrooms, something that happened after my Dad returned from active duty in Iraq and Afghanistan. Diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress, he had terrible nightmares and my Mom was afraid to sleep with him, after he choked her thinking that she was the enemy.

I changed into my pajama bottoms and threw a bathrobe on over it and donned my slippers, my usual and comfortable attire when walking around the house at night.

"Can I get you anything before I head off to bed, Rose," I said.

"Have a glass of wine with me, John," she said. "It's Valentine's Day. Don't leave me here alone to watch the movie all by myself. I love this movie. It's so romantic. Don't go to bed just yet."

How could I resist her on her favorite of all days, Valentine's Day, while she watched her most favorite movie, The Postman Rings Twice? She looked so happily content watching her favorite movie and I was still thrilled she was talking to me, even if I had to continue to play my Dad for her to respond to me.

"Okay," I said. "Yeah, sure. I'll get the wine."

I opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. I sat next to her, as I did before and she lifted my arm again putting it around her shoulders, while assuming the same position as she did before only, this time, without her hand resting on my cock. Thank God because I couldn't take any more of her touching me like that and in that way with her fingertips teasing and toying with the head of my prick.

I'm only human. If she continued fondling the head of my cock with her fingertips I'd cum. We each had two glasses of wine, while watching the movie. She was amorous and sexy and I was nervous and horny.

There's something about this movie, The Postman Rings Twice, that is so seductively erotic. I always have a difficult time when Jack Nicholson is having sex with Jessica Lange right there on the kitchen table. That scene is so hot and it just gets to me. As all the other times I've watched this movie, with this movie being my mother's favorite, I had an erection. I'm not ashamed to admit that I've masturbated over Jessica Lange more than a few times pretending that I was Jack Nicholson in the scene. She's hot for an older woman.

When, my Mom rested her hand on my thigh again I froze. The warmth of her hand was driving me crazy with lustful and incestuous thoughts of having sex with my mother. She was rubbing, feeling, and caressing my thigh through my pajama bottoms. Even thought it felt good for her to touch me like that and in that way, it made me feel a little sick inside. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help myself from enjoying it. I had been so lonely ever since I started caring for my Mom and now I'm so very horny. At least, she wasn't touching my cock.

It felt so good to have her touch me like that, in the way that no mother should touch her son and no son should enjoy being touched like that by his mother, but I couldn't resist her. Yeah, I should have gotten up and gone to bed, only, I couldn't help it. I was hungry for the attention and the affection of my Mom and I was enjoying her touching me not only in the way that a mother touches her son but also in a sexual way. It had been so long since she's been responsive and if this was the only way that she could respond to me, then I was her reluctant lover.

Where she was touching me through the thick material of my jeans before, the sheer material of my pajama bottoms allowed me to better feel the warmth of her hand. It felt so good. She was driving me nuts in the way she was feeling my thigh, moving her hand up and down and moving her hand between my legs and just stopping short of touching my cock and my testicles.

Every time she did that, I thought for sure she'd touch me. Every time she did that, she stopped just shy of touching my cock. She was teasing me and it was working. Then she did it again, but this time she didn't stop. She moved her hand to my cock and rested it there. I couldn't believe it.

With her long fingers playing with my testicles, she was teasing me and it was working. She was making me so excited. Never have I been as horny. I wanted her. I wanted my Mom. I needed to have sex with my mother.

Immediately, my cock pulsated lifting itself along with her hand. I was so hard. Only, this time, she was feeling me, touching me, through my pajama bottoms and this time, I could really feel her hand and her fingers feeling, squeezing, caressing, fondling, and rubbing my cock. I couldn't believe how good it felt for her to touch me like that and in that way.

I don't wear underwear when I go to bed, I take it off and just throw on my pajama bottoms. Underwear while sleeping is too confining and the looseness of just pajama bottoms is much more comfortable. Besides, when dreaming about having sex with a woman, I like feeling my cock rubbing itself against the mattress.

My Mom was driving me nuts. She was really feeling my cock. She thought I was her husband, no doubt. I was stuck. I was trapped. I was enjoying it. I wanted her. What could I do?

I didn't want to do anything but hopefully get a hand job from my Mom. I know it was wrong to think that, but I did. I wanted my Mom to give me a hand job. Okay? So what? What's the big deal?

I know it was wrong of me to have those thoughts, but I was. I was horny and I'd do anything to feel my mother's hand and fingers around my naked cock. Besides, who would know that she masturbated me? Surely, she wouldn't know. Only, I would know and, not proud of the fact that I'm having incestuous thoughts over my mother, I'm not planning on telling anyone.

"You didn't kiss me for Valentine's Day, John," she said looking up at me with a look that made me want to kiss her, while imagining that she was Jessica Lange.

Kiss her? Oh, my God. My heart was in my mouth. My mother wants me to kiss her. If my Mom kisses me, really kisses, I'm going to lose all control.

I leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek, but then she turned her head and kissed me square on the lips. It was beyond exciting, embarrassing, and awkward, all at the same time when she parted my lips with her tongue. My mother's tongue was in my mouth. My mother was French kissing me. Oh, my God. I couldn't believe it when I surrendered my tongue to her and returned her kisses.

It was as if there were fireworks going off in my brain. My mind went blank but my body was alive with an electricity, as if I had just been plugged into a wall outlet. I didn't know my cock could get any harder but it did and any bigger but it was. It was sticking straight up in my pajama bottoms. It was a good thing that my bathrobe covered my erection, somewhat, otherwise I'd really be embarrassed.

The soft, warm, wetness of my mother's tongue felt so good in my mouth and I'm not ashamed to admit that I was enjoying French kissing my mother. We kissed and kissed, as if we were babysitting and I was dating her. I never thought French kissing my mother could feel this good, but it did.

"Touch me, John," she said whispering in my ear and blowing her hot breath after giving the inside of my ear a lick.

When she did that, licked the inside of my ear and then blew in it, I was wild with desire and passion for my mother. Then, I thought, touch her? She wants me to touch her. Touch her where? Seriously, I'm afraid to touch her for fear of what will happen next. I can't touch her, but I want to touch her everywhere.

She moved my hand to her breast. She wanted me to feel her tit. Her breast felt so good in my hand. I was feeling my mother's breast. Certainly, hers was not the first tit that I felt, but this was my Mom's tit, the same tit that I sucked on when I was a baby.

"Play with my nipple," she said. "I like it when you finger my nipple. It makes me wet."

Oh, my God. This isn't happening, but it is. This is really happening.

I moved my fingers gently across her nipple and my mother's nipple immediately responded. Her nipple was huge. I couldn't help but pull it out more with my index finger and thumb while staring down at the impression it made in her nightgown. I wanted to suck it. I wanted to suck my mother's nipple. I had this overwhelming desire to suck her tits.

Just as I was feeling her tit, just as I was fingering her nipple, she did something unexpected. She unbuttoned my pee hole and reached her hand inside my pajama bottom. As if in slow motion, I felt her touch my penis.

First I felt her fingertips and then I felt her hand grasp it. The feel of her hand around my cock is something I will never forget. It was magical. Then, she surrounded it with her fingers and pulled my cock from out of my pajama bottoms.

Embarrassed and excited at the same time, my Mom was looking down at my cock, staring at it, actually, while holding it in her hand and fondling it with her fingertips. I looked down and watched my mother holding my cock in her hand. I couldn't help but stare at her hand while watching her fondle my big prick.

I couldn't believe it. As if it was a dream, it was difficult for me to wrap my brain around my mother fondling my cock, while staring at it. Then, she looked up at me and gave me a sexy look.

Then, she looked back down at my cock and slowly started stroking me, while staring at my cock. My Mom was giving me a hand job and it felt so good. With her being the first woman who ever touched my naked penis, there was no way that I could stop her from masturbating me. I was actually helping the process along by humping her hand with my hips.

I wanted her to give me a hand job. I was so horny and I wanted to cum. I wanted to cum all over my mother's hand. I didn't care if it was wrong, this felt too good not to be right. Besides, what does she know? She thinks I'm my dead father. She'll never know she gave me a hand job. She'll never remember any of this, if ever she awakens.

She leaned up and kissed me again, French kissed me, while still stroking me. I responded by kissing her back and as soon as I kissed her my cock stiffened, until I thought it would explode. I couldn't help myself from kissing and kissing her. There I was French kissing my mother while feeling her tits and fingering her nipples, while she stroked my cock. I felt an excitement I have never experienced before.
Then, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt and responsibility. This is wrong. This is too weird, a bad dream, a nightmare. I can't go through with this. I need to be strong. I need to resist her. Just because she had no grasp of reality, no sense of what is happening, I need to be the normal one here.

"Wait," I said pulling away from her to stall for time. I needed to clear my head. I was so friggin' excited. I was so weak but I was trying to be really strong. "I need a sip of wine."

I needed to get up off the couch. I needed to get away from her. I needed to go to bed. I needed to masturbate.

Only, when I lifted my arm and reached for my glass, my mother leaned to the side and had her head in my lap. My erection rested against her cheek and chin. I looked down and her mouth was so close to my cock that I could feel her warm breath. I couldn't believe it. All I could do is stare. Never having had a blowjob before I was beyond excited with the anticipation of my mother sucking my cock.

Yeah, sure, I wanted her to blow me. Yet, this was my mother, my Mom. How could I want that to happen? How could I allow that to happen? Only, I wanted it to happen.

Whatever resistance, whatever will power I had, was gone. Is this it? Is she about to suck my cock? I couldn't believe it. My Mom is about to give me a blowjob.

She was still holding onto my prick and staring at it. Then, she started kissing the length of my penis and licking the head. It was surreal. It was incredible. I watched her tongue flicking out and licking my cock. It felt so good for her to touch me like that.

Frozen with fear and mad with lustful desire for my Mom, spent from being on an emotional rollercoaster, I had all this pent up, excited anticipation. It felt so good to feel the sensation of her lips kissing and her tongue licking my cock that I couldn't stop her. There was just no way that I could pull away now.

Then, when I felt her lips take my cock, when she slid my cock in her mouth, and I felt my cock inside her warm, wet mouth, I thought I was going to explode a load of cum in my mother's mouth. I felt her tongue wrap itself around the head of my penis, I was mad with desire for her. My mom was blowing me. Mommy was sucking my cock. My first blowjob and it was my mother giving it to me. It felt so incredible.

I closed my eyes trying to imagine that it wasn't my mother sucking my cock. I tried to pretend Jessica Lange was blowing me. I tried to pretend it was Sharon, a girl that I liked and had dated a few times, but she didn't like me enough to continue, especially with me never leaving the house anymore. Only, I couldn't help but look down and when I did, I saw that it was my mother blowing me. Certainly, it was more than exciting to watch my Mom suck my cock than to imagine it was Jessica Lange or Sharon blowing me.

I leaned to the side, I wanted to see my cock in my mother's mouth and when I did, it was even more exciting. To see my big, thick prick stretching my mother's mouth was something that I couldn't imagine. Never, even in my wildest sexual fantasies, have I ever imagined my Mom giving me a blowjob. It was so exciting to feel the warmth of her hand stroking me, while she sucked me. She was blowing me, really blowing me.

Gently, I stroked her hair, while I humped her mouth. I was fucking my mother's face. I couldn't help myself. I wanted to cum. I wanted to cum in my mother's mouth.

I reached my other hand down her gapping open nightgown top and started feeling her tits for real. Touching her breasts while she blew me was even more exciting. I was all over her big boobs. I was feeling and caressing and fingering her nipples, while fucking her mouth with my hips and my Mom was moaning.

Suck it, Rose," I said. "Blow me. Suck my cock, Mommy."

Shit! I couldn't believe I said that. That was stupid. I couldn't believe I called her Mommy. I'm fucked now. Screwed. Now what?

"Do you like it when Mommy sucks Daddy's cock."

Thank God she still thinks I'm her husband.

"Oh, yeah, baby," I said. "Daddy loves it when Mommy sucks his cock."

"I bet you want to cum in Mommy's mouth," she said removing my cock from her mouth to speak and looking up at me with a sexy smile.

"I do," I said. "I'd love to cum in Mommy's mouth."

"And you will," she said. "I promise you will cum in Mommy's mouth, but after you fuck Mommy. Mommy needs to feel your big cock in her wet pussy. Mommy is so horny for her Daddy."

I couldn't believe my mother was talking dirty baby talk to me. A sexually perverse dream come true, it was as if I was a fly on the wall while my parents made love, only I was there, really there, and participating. I couldn't believe it when my mother sat up and pulled off her nightgown. My Mom was naked and she was smiling at me with a sexual excitement that I never could have imagined my Mom having. She was gorgeous. She had such a hot body. Mommy is a hot MILF.

She was totally exposed. There was everything in plain sight, her tits, her ass, and her pussy for me to see and touch and I couldn't help myself from grabbing hold of her tits. And then I sucked her nipples. I sucked my mother's nipples, first one and then the other. I was all over her big tits.

"Fuck me," she said. "Stick your big prick in me and really fuck me. Fuck me hard, John. I need a good fuck," she said. "Make me cum. Mommy needs to cum," she said with such a sexy voice that I couldn't resist giving her what she wanted and what I needed. "But first lick my pussy. Play with my clit and fuck me with your fingers. Make me wet. Make me really wet before you slide your big prick inside of me."

Oh, my God. I have never gone down on a woman before. I've never touched a woman there before. I've never even seen a pussy up close. What do I do? What do I do? This is all so very new and for my first pussy to be my Mom's pussy was beyond believable.

With no time to decide, I fell to my knees and she opened her legs and pulled my face to her pussy. I had a face full of her wet pussy. I lashed out my tongue and tasted her. Not bad, I can do this. I licked my Mom. I was sucking my Mom's pussy. I gently inserted my finger inside her, along with my tongue and she gasped. Following her moves, gently, I rubbed her clit, while licking her. Never having done any of this before, it all came naturally to me and I picked it up quickly. I was finger fucking my mother.

"Oh, my God, you're so wet," I said.

My face was covered with her wetness. I had my Mom's secretions even up my nose. I was drowning in her wetness and in the sexuality of my Mom.

"Fuck me, John. I need to feel your cock. Fuck me, fuck me hard. Make me cum. I want to cum. Fuck Mommy."

I removed my tee shirt and pajama bottoms and mounted her right there on the couch. I felt my mother's hand reaching down to take my cock in her hand and insert it inside of her. Nice and tight, she was so very wet and so very warm.

I couldn't believe my cock was buried in my mother. I couldn't believe I was fucking my mother. No longer a virgin, I couldn't believe I was finally getting laid and by all people, my Mom. I couldn't believe I was having sex with my mother. I couldn't believe my Mom thought I was her husband and after already giving me a hand job and a blowjob, and after I ate her pussy and finger fucked her, now she was fucking me.

"Fuck me, Rose," I blurted. "Fuck me, Mommy!"

We were making love on the couch and then on the floor, while the movie still played and all the while, as if I was Jack Nicholson banging Jessica Lange.

Then, it happened, I was ready to cum. It happened to so fast and I couldn't stop. I exploded all that I had in my mother. As if on cue, as soon as she felt my warm oozy gush, she had an orgasm, too. She grabbed me so hard and hugged me so long, I couldn't breathe. I made my Mom cum. I couldn't believe it.

She was hanging onto me so hard that I thought she'd crush my bones. She had her legs wrapped around me, while I was still buried deep inside my Mom. We stayed like that for a while, until I grew hard again and started humping her again. Then, she rolled me over and got on top of me.

She was fucking me, really fucking me. She was insatiable. She was a wildcat. Maybe because it had been such a long time since she had sex and with me never having sex, we were mad with desire for one another.

My Mom was sitting on my cock, bouncing and gyrating. Her tits were bouncing up and down and side to side, as she fucked me really hard. I reached up and caressed her breasts and fingered her nipples before leaning up to suck her tits, while my cock was still swollen inside of her. I couldn't believe I was sucking my Mom's tits while fucking her, but I was.

I amazed myself that I could stay so hard so long without cumming again. Only, I needed to cum again and I need to cum in my mother's mouth. After I fucked her for a while, I asked her. I wanted to know what it was like to experience a blowjob and cumming in a woman's mouth.

"Suck my cock, Rose. I want to cum in your mouth," I said.

"Okay," she said with a sexy smile. "I did promise you, after all. Consider this blowjob your special Valentine's Day gift, John."

We were on the floor and she climbed off me and made herself comfortable between my legs. I grabbed a pillow from the couch and raised my head enough to watch her. I wanted to see her take my cock in her mouth, as much as I wanted to see her mouth with my cock in it.

She was giving me a show. First she teased my cock and my testicles with her hand and fingers, before teasing it with her lips and tongue. She was such a sexy cock teaser. Finally, with my cock in her mouth, she was staring up at me and smiling, while watching me watch her blowing me. Then, she went to town on my cock.

Her head was bobbing up and down, while my mother was making all the cock sucking sounds that guys love to hear. She was blowing me, really blowing me. Oh, my God, it felt so good to have my mother suck my cock. It felt so exciting to have my cock in my mother's mouth.

"Suck it, Rose. Oh, yeah, baby. Suck my cock, Mom. Suck my big prick, Mommy."

As soon as I said, Mommy, she pulled away. She had a shocked look on her face, as if I had just awoken her from a sound sleep.

"Danny! What are you doing?" She looked down at her naked self, grabbed her nightgown, and held it up to her naked breasts and pussy. "How dare you? How dare you?"

"Mom! You called me Danny. You're back."

She clutched at herself in a vain attempt to cover her nakedness. The shocked surprise that saddened her face made me realize that my mother was back. Oh, shit, I'll be grounded now for life for fucking my mother and letting her blow me.

"How could you have sex with me? How could you take advantage of me like that? How could you? How could you? How could you?" She looked at me with a hurt expression while asking me the same question over and again?

"Mom," was all that I could say. "Mom, I'm sorry."

Only, I wasn't sorry. I was happy. I was happy that my Mom was back.

She got up from the floor and sat on the couch clutching her nightgown to her naked body. I got up and sat beside her with my arm around her in a feeble attempt to console her. She had a confused look on her face and then she started to cry.

"Danny," she said. Then a realization came over her clouded face. "I really thought you were him. I miss him so much. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for what I've done to you. It's not your fault. I'm sorry and I'm so very embarrassed."

"Don't be embarrassed, Mom. It's okay, Mom. Really, it is. I understand. I'm just so glad you're back. Everything will alright now. You'll see."

Her hand rested in my lap next to and in contact with my cock. She looked down at my cock and then looked up at me and smiled. Then, she hugged me. It was a long, soulful hug that ended with a kiss, but not a French kiss. She looked down at my cock again.

"You're so hard. You're so big," she said looking up at me.

"Mom, I'm sorry," I said not knowing what else to say and suddenly feeling embarrassed for my nakedness.

Then, she wrapped her hand around my cock again. I couldn't believe it. Immediately, I grew harder with the touch of her hand.

"Don't be," she said. "It's only natural what happened between us." We didn't speak for a while, but just sat like that with her hand holding my cock, as if I was going to float away if she let go of it. "Was this your first time?" She asked breaking the silence between us.

"Yes," I said looking down and watching her fondling the head of my penis with her fingertips.

Oh, my God, she makes me so crazy when she fondles my cock like that. It felt so deliriously good for her to touch me like that.

"You have a very beautiful cock," she said. "Your penis is exactly like your Dad's penis. I miss his cock so much, you have no idea," she said gently and slowly stroking me to a harder erection. "May I?" She asked, while stroking me.

"Are you kidding me? I love how it feels when you touch me like that."

"You don't mind, do you? I mean, we've already had sex with me thinking you were your Dad and I don't remember the half of it," she said with a sad little laugh.

"Mom," I said looking down at her hand and watching her stroke me. Then, I looked up at her and she was so beautiful that I wanted to kiss her again. "You're making me horny by touching me like that," I said looking down at her hand again and watching her stroke me faster. "It's wrong, Mom."

"Don't you like what I'm doing?"

"Are you kidding me? I love what you're doing, Mom."

"Did you already cum," she asked me, as if she wasn't there when I came off inside of her?

"Not when you were blowing me. I ejaculated inside you when I was fucking you, I mean, making love to you," I said.

"I blew you?"

"Yes, a little bit," I said wishing she'd blow me again.

"Would you like to cum...again?" She looked at me while slowly stroking me and making me harder.

"What do you mean?" I looked at her, as she let go of her nightgown and exposed her naked body to me, again.

"Would you like Mommy to finish blowing you?" She flashed me that sexy smile.

"Really?"

"Yes," she said.

"Oh, God, yes. Please Mommy blow me."

"Okay," she said sliding down and getting more comfortable.

"And can I cum in your mouth?"

"Yes," she said.

"And will you swallow?"

"Just watch me," she said. "Only," she said looking up at me. "We will never do this again nor will we ever talk about what has happened here," she said looking up at me.

"Okay," I said. "Happy Valentine's Day, Mom."

"Happy Valentine's Day, Danny," she said lowering herself and taking my cock in her mouth.

"Suck it, Mom. Blow me. Suck my cock, Mommy."

It didn't take me long to cum in her mouth. I exploded within a couple of minutes of her taking my cock in my mouth. Then, after she blew me, we kissed.

My Mom found a nice man and married him and I married Sharon giving my Mom three beautiful grandchildren to love. We never talked about what happened that day. Only, just as she was grateful that I could help her, I was glad that I could bring her back from where she needed to go to get over the loss of my Dad.

Looking back over what happened between us, I don't think of what we did as something bad, nor do I think of it as sex. I think of it as a son who loved his mother and helped her through a bad time. To be honest, and maybe it's my justification for doing what I did, but I don't think my Mom would have returned from the deep, dark place she was, had I not made love to her.

I brought her back. When the doctors couldn't bring her back with all their high priced medication, I brought her back with my love. We have a special bond because of what we survived as mother and son and every Valentine's Day has new meaning for us.

broken   and   wilted   heart   rose  

Sep 3, 2018 in blowjob

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