Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Right, okay, so here’s My Valentine’s Day Contest entry. I hate to begin with an apology, but time, geography, other writing commitments, lack of electricity, too many Chang beers and, of course, laziness on my part means that I had to sprint for the line with this one. I hope the result isn’t too appalling or disappointing, but I did want to get this in for the competition.
Okay, it’s an incest piece. The young man has a folder on the shared computer just chock full of incest video clips. His mother finds it and is, at first, shocked. But she can’t keep away and goes back to look at the stuff her son has squirrelled away. Then she finds a draft of a Valentine’s Day scene penned by her son (which is the prologue to this piece).
It goes on from there.
Due to the time concern, and I only have a couple of hours left to get this re-read and submitted, there will undoubtedly be errors in the text. I’m sorry, I apologise wholeheartedly, however I also hope that you enjoy the piece.
I’d best get on with it.
Thanks for reading.
GA — Ranong, Thailand — 5th February 2014.
She surprises me with the candles and the tablecloth, the red wine and music. I tell her so, but she just looks at me and smirks. Then I notice the close-fitting tee and how it’s moulded to her high, tight tits. Then the mini skirt and high heels catch my attention. She looks good; in fact, my mother looks very good. So I tell her that as well.
“I’m glad you approve,” she says back to me, and I get the sense she’s teasing. “There’s just you and me now,” my mother replies when I ask why we’re having a dinner like this. It’s Valentine’s Day, it’s meant to be about love and romance. It isn’t a time for mother and son. “I haven’t got anyone else to spend Valentine’s evening with,” she adds. “So I thought we’d make it a special dinner anyway. Just the two of us.”
There’s a look in her eye and a catch in her voice that makes my cock hard. I remind myself this is my mother, but her legs and the fact she isn’t wearing a bra beneath the tee turns me on.
“You don’t mind?” she asks me. “It isn’t … weird, is it?”
I actually think it’s a bit strange, but of course I don’t say that. There’s something going on that I can’t put my finger on — It’s in the way she’s dressed, the way she looks at me, and although the idea is there at the back of my mind, I daren’t think about it too hard. It’s as though actually allowing myself to study the question will make it melt away like an ice-cube on a hot day.
“I don’t mind, mum,” I reply, shrugging one shoulder as I pull a face. “It isn’t as though I’ve got a girlfriend and have to rush out.”
And then she just says it. The words come out of her and I’m staring.
“I could be your girlfriend.”
She’s right up close; my mother is standing there while I sit like a stone on one of the chairs at the revamped and romantically decorative kitchen table. Then she turns, her backside to me, with her thighs so close all I have to do is reach out a hand and…
But I’m too shocked to do a thing. So stunned I can’t move. Even breathing is suddenly difficult, a conscious effort.
“Would you like that, Carl?” she asks.
Her voice is low and husky, really sexy, and hearing my mother say that to me makes my cock go stiff. I have that funny tickle in the pit of my stomach. I’m all pumped up and horny, just like when I watch those video clips and tug my dick.
I’m so fucking randy sitting there with my mother’s fantastic legs so close, but all I can mutter in reply is an inarticulate, “Uh–”
I want to tell my mother that I’d love it if she was my girlfriend. She doesn’t know it, but I’ve been looking at incest porn and having a really good time. I’ve thought about my mother as I’ve wanked, imagining her all naked and sexy with me. Of course, all that is just a fantasy, I never thought she’d ever go for it if I made a move.
My mother laughs and then slowly lifts her skirt.
“Mum,” I groan when I see her round and very taut bottom. And what makes it even better is she’s not wearing any underwear.
“For God’s sake,” she hisses at me as she looks back over one shoulder. “Touch me. Feel my legs and tell me how touching me makes you feel.”
Oh but her legs feel good. I’m stroking my mother’s thighs and can’t believe how smooth her skin is beneath my fingers. She purrs, actually purrs as she shuffles her feet and basically invites me to slide my hand right up to her pussy.
My mother moans and her head falls loose when I stir two fingers around the folds of her labia. “Yes,” she mutters, more a comment to herself, as though it’s ‘mission accomplished’. “Put a finger inside me,” she sighs. “Rub my clit, darling. Feel me. Feel mummy’s cunt.”
Dinner is forgotten when I feel the slippery folds of my mother’s sex.
I’m on my feet and I’m kissing her. The trigger was her sighing out that obscenity. My mother devours pendik escort those kisses, with her tongue in my mouth and her tee-shirt hiked up to show off round tits and pebble-sized nipples. She’s as horny as I am, and her pussy is soaking, squelching as my fingers work at her.
Then we’re in the living room. She’s tumbled back onto the three-seater sofa and I’m standing in front of her. I look down while she rearranges herself, skirt up around her waist, tee-shirt pulled up over her boobs. I take stock, the realisation hitting me a hammer blow that this is my own mother.
I love the way her long black hair is piled up all messy on top of her head. Some strands have come loose and whisper against her temples as she looks up at me with huge green eyes, her red-painted mouth grinning at me. I’ve always thought my mother is pretty — she’s slim and toned, especially since she hit the gym and started to eat healthily after a messy time when my father did one a few years ago. Mum went off the rails, as they say, when dad did her over and buggered off with a young woman from work. But she got herself on track, built up her business, and now we’re doing all right. She has men after her. I’ve seen them looking, but other than a couple of dickhead boyfriends she hasn’t bothered much with men at all in recent months, probably a year or two now I come to think about it.
Anyway, my mum is a looker with a lovely figure, and yeah, I’ll admit to wanking off while thinking about her. That’s how I got into the incest porn anyway. I’ve tugged my dick and imagined fucking my mum, using the gutter-mouthed models in proxy.
I just never imagined it would ever become reality.
“I’m going to suck your cock,” my mother murmurs. She reaches out for my belt, the buckle chinking as her fingers work at the fastening. The button comes loose and the zip goes down and then my mother hauls jeans and boxers to my knees. “Oh,” she says when she sees me rock hard and ready. “What a lovely cock,” she adds. “So big and stiff.”
I can’t help it, but when she uses a hand on my length and then wraps those scarlet lips around my cock-head the stuff just squirts out of me. I groan and gasp and try to tell her but it’s happening before I can blurt a warning.
The force of that first jet makes my mother gag and cough, and my cock falls out of her mouth as it continues to spit jizm everywhere. Before I know it my mother’s pretty face is spoiled by thick spunk clinging to her cheek, with more of the stuff laying across the bridge of her nose, a glistening rope in her hair. Her tee-shirt is spattered too, stained with ejaculate.
“Bloody hell!” my mother yelps when it all starts. But she recovers quickly, laughing as she wipes at the mess on her cheek with the back of a hand.
Then she takes hold of my cock again, muttering about how hard it still is as she fists the length of it. Next, while keeping her eyes locked on mine throughout, she tells me to stand up, then squats and takes my cock between her lips again. Her mouth makes popping sounds, like the cork from a champagne bottle as she sucks at the big domed end of my dick. She seems to really enjoy teasing me with her eyes while she does that, her cheeks going concave before — pop! — and her tongue swirls around the gloopy mess leaking out of me.
“Is it going to stay hard?” she asks, rising to her feet, a hand still working my stiffness.
I know from experience watching incest porn that I’ll stay hard, that it won’t be a problem. Not a problem at all. “Yes, mum,” I say.
She smiles at me and then leans in to kiss my mouth. “Goody,” she replies, whispering. “Then let’s go up to bed, my bed,” she adds pointedly. “Make this a Valentine’s to remember.”
IT TOOK Louise Cross more than a few seconds before her brain accepted what her eyes were seeing. She stared at the screen, the word was right there beneath the folder icon. Her emotions were in tumult because of it. One hand cupped the mouse, the feel of the hard plastic shell beneath her fingers penetrating the fugue to remind her of where she was and what she had been doing. She was at the computer and had been about to attack invoices which had built up, the chore a pressing necessity.
But then she’d found it.
Louise saw the pointer slide across the screen until it lay directly over the folder; her forefinger rose. All it would take was a click of the mouse.
She sat there, poised on the brink for a few moments before she released the mouse and pushed away from the desk with both hands. The casters rolled easily across the carpet until the chair came to a halt a yard away. She rose to a half-crouch, her buttocks hovering inches above the seat, with Louise’s attention on the computer screen, held there by the folder icon and its shocking label.
“Shit,” she muttered, collapsing back onto the seat before she scooted forward.
Louise knew she would have to look. Despite being appalled maltepe escort by the potential she couldn’t let it lie, nosiness had always been a forte of hers.
The mouse was in her palm once more. It rolled easily over the mat, the pointer on the screen following remotely along in a smooth arc until the arrow lay over the folder once more.
Louise sighed and swore again. But, inexorably, her finger pressed down in a double click on the mouse, and the two-point-five gig of information was available to her. She saw the familiar blue W of Word documents mixed in with an unfamiliar icon that looked to her like a traffic cone, orange with two white horizontal stripes. Then, when she registered some of the titles affixed to the documents and traffic cones, Louise gasped. “Oh my God,” she muttered, eyes wide, jaw hanging slack.
The mouse pointer described several jerky circles while Louise scrolled through the contents of the folder. She picked one at random, one of the traffic cones, her finger working before her conscious mind realised her intent.
There was a pause of several beats while the computer responded to the command, and then a video screen opened up in front of Louise. She stared with appalled fascination as a woman of indeterminate middle age — early-to-mid forties Louise registered dimly, perhaps a little older — opened a door and peered round at a much younger man lying on a bed.
Breakfast, the woman said, her accent English Home Counties.
In that vague part of her brain that was capable of reasonably coherent thought, Louise appraised the pair. The woman, her blonde bob a little untidy and in need of attention, spoke with a whisky voice, her eyes twinkling with devilment, her enjoyment obvious as she stepped into the room.
On the bed, the dark-haired young man rolled over from what was meant to be sleep. Hello, mum, he said, hefting himself into a sitting position, a broad chest and muscular arms coming into view.
When the woman moved into the room, Louise noticed her face showed signs of her age, with crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes, a feature that told of a sense of humour and a tendency towards smiling and laughter, an impression fortified by the perpetual grin the woman seemed to favour. She wasn’t exactly pretty, she was a touch too careworn for that, but Louise could see a certain appeal in the feline eyes that glittered with mischief, and the way the blonde carried herself, so certain and confident only heightened her sex appeal. The woman wore a sleeveless summer dress, light cotton with a blue floral pattern, scooped low at the front to reveal a deep crevasse between what were obviously large breasts, and again, her mind operating on a vague level, Louise dimly registered that the woman had a decent figure.
What would you like with your breakfast? the woman asked in a flirtatious manner, her smirk twitching as she posed with her hands on her hips. Coffee … tea… She paused and shifted her feet, turning so she was square on to the man in the bed, tossing her head and thrusting out her generous bosom before adding a gravel-voiced and very provocative, Or me?
“Shit,” Louise hissed through her teeth when the on-screen action cranked up several gears and, immediately after her lewd offer, the woman lifted the hem of the dress to her waist to reveal dark stockings and suspender belt.
The man on the bed grinned and rolled up onto his knees when the woman clambered onto the bed. This is going to be a great breakfast, mum, he said, his eyes roving.
The woman’s expression matched her son’s when she nodded and crawled slowly towards him on hands and knees. What have you got for me? she asked, reaching out a hand to yank the duvet from the man’s body. A nice big sausage?
If she hadn’t been stunned by the suggestion that mother and son were about to commit incest, Louise would have groaned at the cheesy dialogue. “Oh God,” she mumbled. “Shit … Oh fuck.”
On screen the young man, who Louise estimated to be in his early twenties, was on his back, his fist slowly stroking his erection while he eyed the blonde hungrily.
“No,” breathed Louise, aghast. “You can’t–“
The woman was still on hands and knees, her stare centred on the long, thick hard-on in the man’s hand. Here,” she said, reaching for it. Let mummy suck that big cock.
“No, he’s your son”, Louise sighed. She shook her head from side-to-side, attention rapt with her wide eyes fixed to the appalling scene developing in front of her. “No,” she repeated.
But the woman had hold of the man’s cock, her grip low down at its root. She stroked it a few times, grinning at the young man before her mouth opened and her lips pursed around the cock-head.
IT WAS after five in the afternoon when Carl returned home after a day at work. It was the moment Louise had been dreading all day, and she wondered if he would be able to tell how mixed up she was kartal escort just by looking.
“Hello, mum,” Carl said, dumping the day-sack he carried with him onto one of the four balloon-backed chairs set around the kitchen table.
Louise, with her back to her son as she pretended to be busy at the counter, swallowed heavily, her mind taken back to the greeting the son in the video clip had given the blonde woman when she had first appeared at his bedroom door. “Good day?” warbled Louise, her voice tremulous. She sensed rather than saw her son’s shrug.
“Not bad,” replied Carl. He moved to his mother’s side and snatched up a slice of carrot she was in the process of chopping. “Got a decent tip for a job I did on a bloke’s bike,” he added, crunching on the carrot before leaning in to kiss his mother’s cheek.
Louise felt her stomach give a curious flip when Carl’s lips touched her face. Her breath caught in her throat and she slipped with the knife, almost taking off the tip of her forefinger.
“Whoa! Watch it, mum,” said Carl, full of concern.
Louise placed the knife down next to the wooden chopping board, forcing herself to turn and face her son. “Don’t distract me,” she said with more vehemence than the situation warranted. “Why don’t you go and have a shower. Let me finish prepping dinner.” Then, seeing Carl’s blink of surprise at her sharp tone, Louise softened. “Go on, Carl,” she added quietly, the love she felt for her son curdling with her discovery on their shared desktop computer. “You always come home smelling of engines. Go on,” Louise pushed a hand against her son’s chest to shoo him away, “shower. Now. Tea will be ready in half-an-hour.”
Carl gave his mother a rueful look, believing her sharpness with him to be all about personal hygiene. “Okay,” he said, grabbing the day-sack from the chair. “Give me a shout when you want me to come down.” He threw his mother a grin. “I’ll smell all lovely.”
“Then go on,” Louise responded, pointing to the ceiling with the knife she’d just retrieved from the work surface. Then, when her son had made his exit, she looked at the space he’d occupied, her mind full of conflict.
CARL CLIMBED the stairs to the second storey of the ten-year-old semi-detached house they had moved into just after the place had been built. Carl had been nine at the time, the family a complete unit until his father took it into his head that he would trade in his wife for a younger model. These days it was just Carl and his mother, with Carl’s job as a motorcycle mechanic helping towards the mortgage and other household expenses, while Louise worked hard at her online jewellery business. Times had been hard at first, especially in the days before Carl had left school, but now, with him earning and Louise’s business taking an upward turn, things had improved.
Carl’s first act was to drop his day-sack into his bedroom before he stripped out of his clothes, leaving them in an untidy heap for his mother to complain about, which she usually did once a week on average, despairing that her son would ever learn to tidy up after himself. He showered, padding wet footprints onto the cream carpet from the bathroom to his own bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, the ribbed muscles of his stomach visible. He opened the top drawer of a four-tier unit and selected a tee-shirt before moving to a canvas-fronted wardrobe, a self-assembly unit from the Argos chain, all soft blonde wood and shiny, brass-coloured screws, from which he took a loose-fitting pair of jogging bottoms. Dressed, Carl checked the red numerals on the front of the digital alarm clock on the unit next to his bed and, assessing he had quarter of an hour until his mother called him down to eat, went into the guest bedroom slash home-office and fired up the computer.
The machine went through its usual lengthy boot-up process, the time it took for the damned machine to decide it was ready to play making him humph with frustration.
“Finally,” Carl said, the word loaded with irony as the familiar desktop appeared. But, no sooner had he spoken than he felt an icy prickle run down his spine. “Oh,” Carl blurted, throwing an unthinking glance towards the door. “Oh fuck–“
He gulped, throat working heavily while anxiety squeezed his guts. Liquid dread threatened his sphincter.
Carl couldn’t understand it, he was usually so careful. What had he been thinking the last time he closed down the machine? Carl thought back to his last session on the computer, reliving the last moments of the previous evening when his mother had been next door with Jean. Okay, she’d come back and caught him by surprise, the sound of the front door closing and her voice coming up the stairs making Carl rush to yank up his tracksuit bottoms…
But he was sure he’d clicked on the Properties tab and selected Hidden in the appropriate menu. Although, there it was plain as day against the black background of the desktop: a yellow folder entitled Incest. It couldn’t be any more obvious; he hadn’t even tried to disguise the folder with another name.
“Oh … Oh, shit,” Carl moaned, appalled at the lapse, mortified by the potential for discovery by a third party.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32