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Ass

I had just hit forty, and the sudden realisation that my life as a fertile woman was within a few years of being over frightened the hell out of me.

Had myself and my husband had more children I doubt this would have bothered me, but I married a man that waited till our honeymoon to tell me that he didn’t really have any interest in having children. As our relationship was otherwise solid and with family pressures, this never broke us up, and as we were impulsive early twenty-somethings at the time, I was able to get my husband to make love to me without the condoms that he insisted on wearing every time while he was a little drunk after a friend’s wedding.

He didn’t take my resulting pregnancy well, but we stayed together and I gave birth to my only child, a son.

My husband had little to do with him as a baby, and when the boy was old enough for my husband attempt to find any common ground with him, he failed to find any. All my boy wanted to do was read books and play with kid’s science sets, making potato clocks and what-have-you.

All my husband’s attempts to get the boy to watch sports were met with desperate complaints.

So he and my husband were never close, but they didn’t need to be. I was probably guilty of being an overbearing, coddling mother, but he was the only child I was capable of getting out of my husband. I could not bring myself to cheat on an otherwise good husband, he didn’t deserve that, and he only became more careful as he got older, and as he was never much of a drinker, never more than a good buzz from a couple of beers, he was never impulsive enough to make love to me unwrapped.

It was kind of a depressing thought, since my marriage I have had unprotected sex once. A single time.

As I grew older I came to appreciate how lucky I was that that single time was enough, as I have several friends who have been trying for years, having had gallons of semen ejaculated inside them and not a single baby.

It may have been several factors that began my panic; my age, as I mentioned and impending infertility, and the fact my son was now eighteen, had his first girlfriend and was spending more and more time out with her. A boy his age, how many years, possibly months did I truly have him before he went away to university or got his own flat?

I refuse to be one of those interfering women that calls her son every day and forces him to come to dinner every sunday, difficult though that is going to be.

“Get a dog.” My husband says, not quite understanding how hurtful I find that. I love animals, but the connection I have with my son, someone intellectually stimulating and interesting could never be matched by a dog that worships you for taking him round the park then pouring him a bowl of biscuits.

My son brought his girlfriend to dinner recently, they had been together six weeks at this point.

When they came home, he led her into the house, and I was strangely pleased to see a girl who genuinely reminded me of an eighteen year old me; shoulder-length dark hair, brown eyes, chubby size eighteen frame and secretary glasses. She wore a pretty top and a pair of jeans. I liked her straight away but I loathed her straight away too, because she was the right kind of girl for my son, and because she was the right kind of girl to take my son away.

She was a little shy at dinner, and my husband was annoyingly quite taken with her ample figure, though I think he concealed it well enough to her and our son. As a mature woman, I was able to pick up on his over-long glances at her breasts and backside.

She wasn’t too different in frame to myself at all, I’m a size eighteen, 38E breasts and thick hips. Apart from the fact my body is almost certainly a little less pert than hers, we could comfortably swap outfits.

I had started touching up my greying roots about two years ago so I still had the same rich chestnut coloured hair I had at her age.

She was very pleasant, if a little quiet and shy, not quite as confident and talkative as I was as a younger woman, but she was nice enough.

When my son took her home my husband decided he was horny so on went a rubber and he took me from behind half-dressed in our bedroom. It was a welcome bout of impulsive sex but the whole time I knew he was staring at the back of my head imagining our son’s new girlfriend was on her knees with his cock inside her.

I came all the same, my husband does know what to do with his cock and half-decent sex is still half-decent sex, which was becoming increasingly rare these days, my husband just wasn’t as horny as he used to be.

As he fucked me, I ran my usual fantasy that he was fucking me raw and when he climaxed, that the little rubber reservoir between us was absent and that a baby was being conceived. Even the fantasy of being impregnated was what usually got me off during sex. This might be more common than I think but it’s not something you bring up around the water cooler is it?

That evening, my husband was in the garage having a beer and watching a football match and my güvenilir bahis son and I were watching a film.

“So what did you think of her?” My son asked eagerly. He was the spit of his father at his age, only a couple of inches taller with lighter hair, a dirty blonde to his father’s grey-flecked dark brown. He had the same broad shoulders but his face was more jovial. My husband’s face was sterner than our son’s, with his infectious, boyish grin.

“I thought she was lovely.” I answered. “A really sweet girl.”

My son beamed, it was obvious he was really keen on her.

He was somewhat new to the world of women, as despite his looks and handsome frame, he was very awkward and lacked that cocky streak that girls his age find attractive. He had struggled for years since his hormones switched from “Girls are silly” to “Boobs are the meaning of life”, coming home crying day after day after another girl had rejected him.

I’m sorry to say but I loved it every time. Although I felt his pain and frustration, I knew it meant it would be a little longer until girls started accepting his advances.

They had met at his friend’s birthday party, and had ended up pairing up for the slow dance at the end of the night and had seemingly taken it from there.

Days later he came home visibly giddy and I knew instantly why, though I had to ask.

“What are you so giddy about honey?” I asked as he sat beside me.

“Nothing.” My son smirked, his face bright red, a shade brighter than I had ever seen it.

“Well as long as you were safe.” I said nonchalantly.

“Mum!” My son protested. I laughed and shrugged.

“I know that look young man, I’m not gonna pretend I don’t know what you’ve been getting up to.” I teased.

My son grinned sheepishly. “Fine, yes, we did it when her parents went out and yes we were safe, she had some condoms.” He said.

I was so grateful for that. Call me selfish but the thought that that young thing might have been on the pill or the implant or something really upset me. Maybe I did see her as a younger me, and I had spent my entire life nearly with only ever having cock-shaped rubber objects inside me on account of my overly-cautious husband.

So, my son had lost his virginity. He was another step further away from me and I was another step closer to retiring myself to sharing a house with only my husband, without a tiny, innocent person coming to me with grazed knees or for a cuddle when another girl says he isn’t her type.

My husband is an equal companion, he doesn’t strictly need me for anything other than sex and conversation. I thrived on being depended upon by a child.

Recently I had caught myself entertaining thoughts like sabotaging my husband’s stash of condoms, or even stealing a used one somehow and taking the sperm out of it and trying the old turkey baster method, but I couldn’t bring myself to do something so deceitful. I just lived in hope that we would have a breakage or a failure, but the one time I felt a condom split inside me I had a split second of optimism before my husband hastily withdrew to replace it. I suppose he felt it even more than I did.

I was sat up one night, playing on my phone and googling things as I so often do, and I don’t know why I typed this in, but I found myself googling “Do fathers and sons share DNA?”

I suppose my son’s recent discovery of sex and my husband’s juvenile attraction to the girlfriend had me wondering such a thing, and was amazed to find that close male family members can be difficult to tell apart in paternity tests.

Such a revelation made me excited in a way I didn’t entirely understand, with an odd sense of inexplicable hope.

Feeling some sudden competition, I made a few changes; I started dressing sexier, lower necklines (I do have superb cleavage) tighter jeans, summer dresses, I started wearing my hair in long tresses rather than the simple ponytail I usually wore and I made a bit more effort with my makeup. Every time my husband made love to me recently I knew his mind was elsewhere and I wanted it back on me, and also, oddly enough I wanted to let that little girl know she wasn’t the queen hen in the coop just yet.

It worked somewhat, my husband’s approach to sex became more intimate rather than using me as a masturbation sleeve and even my son noticed a difference in me.

“You’re looking great these days, mum.” He said warmly as I drove him home from college one day. “What’s brought this on?”

I shrugged. “I don’t really know son, I suppose I’m not ready to be a boring old lady yet.”

My son laughed. “Mum, you’ve just gone forty. That’s like thirty nowadays. Women are MILFs until at least fifty.”

I laughed with him.

“You not seeing what’s-her-name tonight?” I asked.

My son shook his head. “No, she’s being a bit weird lately.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He shrugged. “She keeps putting off seeing me. I’m getting a bit worried.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” I reassured him.

That night as my husband paused our foreplay to roll on one türkçe bahis of his rubbers I brought up a subject that had been taboo since we had both hit thirty.

“It might be our last chance honey, are you really against having another baby? I knew the response, I just needed to feel like I was doing everything in my power.

“What? Are you serious? We are FORTY now, we can’t go having another kid! Think how free we’re going to be in a couple of years once he moves out, we can do whatever we want!” He said.

Being alone in a house with only my husband did not seem free at all to me. That just sounded like two old scrapheapers sat passing the time until death came for them. My son was right, I was only forty, I wasn’t even halfway through my adult life let!

Pleased the conversation was over and resolved, my husband finished rolling on his rubber and mounted me. I spread my legs and felt his covered cock slide inside me, and as usual, I fantasised my hardest that it was bare, and that in ten minutes or so when my husband groaned his climax out that my still-fertile body was being flooded with potent sperm, seeking out my egg like little attack submarines.

Again, this fantasy brought me to climax.

The next day, my son got into my car after college and muttered a throaty greeting before gazing intently out of the window.

“What’s wrong honey?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He said, though the wavering in his voice told me everything.

“Okay sweetheart, but if you want to talk, you know I’m always here for you.” I said kindly.

As soon as we were out of sight of the college the poor boy burst into tears, hunched forward with his face in his hands, his back spasming with his heavy sobs.

“She broke up with me.” He sobbed, and I reached over and stroked his back lovingly. My car being an automatic I had a hand free for motherly affection.

“Aw sweetheart, I’m sorry.” I soothed. “What did she do that for?” I asked.

“She said it’s because she’s going to university in summer and she doesn’t want to be distracted.” He sobbed.

I held back a scoff. I knew what that meant. I had been a student once too, the dumb girls always turn up with a boyfriend at home vowing to stay together but within weeks of being surrounded by oversexed late-teens they chuck them and throw themselves into the first orgy they can find. I was thankful she hadn’t led my son on until that point but angry she had started dating him at all, she must have known all along that this would happen.

He spent a lot of time in his room over the next few days, I barely saw him. I broke the ice about three days later when I said I was going out for some fried chicken.

“Okay I’ll come.” He said. He had barely eaten in three days so he must have been ravenous.

He didn’t speak in the car, but I rested my hand on his leg affectionately and he seemed to let some of his tense body language subside.

We found a booth in the corner where we could talk openly and ordered a bucket of chicken to share.

“How’re you feeling honey?” I asked warmly.

“A bit better.” He replied, his mouth full of chicken.

“Do you still miss her?” I asked. He shrugged.

“I do, but I don’t at the same time. We never really had much to talk about, we just kind’ve did stuff together. Once that was over we never really knew what to do.”

I nodded. “I know what you mean sweetheart, physical attraction means a lot, but that attraction is what begins the relationship, with nothing else it won’t last.” I said.

My son agreed. “I know this might sound a bit selfish but I don’t really want a proper girlfriend just yet. Girls my age are so self-centred and they just go for the biggest idiots!”

I laughed aloud. “So you want an older woman then?” I teased.

He shrugged. “I dunno, maybe I should go for a cougar, someone to have a bit of a fling with who has her shit together.”

“So now you’ve had a bit of the physical side of a relationship you still want that?” I jibed. He blushed and nodded with a grin.

“Yeah, now THAT I am going to seriously miss. My friends talk about having friends-with-benefits, maybe that’s what I need.” He pondered.

“I wouldn’t advise that honey, they always get really complicated, really fast. The younger girls in my office htry that and it always ends in tears. Sex is an emotional connection, you can’t help it.”

My son nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. It must be nice being married, you can have it whenever you want.”

I smiled. “It doesn’t quite work that way, but it is nice.” I said.

“You look so pretty these days I’m jealous of dad, he can have it whenever he wants, he’d be silly not to.” My son said.

What my son had said turned out to be oddly prophetic, as my husband wasn’t feeling horny that night, and as I lay in bed, thoughts were swirling around my mind; thousands of them, all fighting for volume in my crowded head. As much as it kept me awake, having so much turmoil in my head kept me from having to confront some of the more unsettling things I was thinking, like my increasingly-distant güvenilir bahis siteleri son wanting a fuck buddy, my aching desire for another baby before he left home, my husband’s diminishing interest in me as a sexual being despite my increasing efforts, and most disturbing of all, that paternity tests cannot always determine between close family members.

I kept thinking of my handsome son, eighteen years old and virile as hell, probably in his bed right now masturbating furiously now that he had no girlfriend to unleash his desires upon.

My clit began tingling infuriatingly, and I knew I would get no rest until I dealt with it. My husband was fast asleep so I trailed my hand down to my pussy and gently stroked myself to orgasm. I tried to force my son’s face out of my head but as I climaxed, his face filled my vision and I imagined that the fantasy semen flooding my womb was his.

After I laid there, breathing deeply. What the hell was wrong with me, I had effectively just masturbated over my own son!

I needed to get up and go see him, to put things into perspective. He was not a sexual being to me, he was my son. His age was irrelevant I could not go thinking of him as a male adult sharing my roof!

I rose and straightened my nightie and left my bedroom. My son’s door was shut, so I knocked gently. “Yes?” Came the reply.

“It’s mum, can I come in?” I whispered.

“Of course you can.” He replied.

I pushed the door open and saw my son sat up in bed shirtless reading his ebook gadget under his bedside lamp.

“Sorry it’s late.” I said sheepishly. He shrugged.

“I’m always up late.” He replied. “What’s up?”

“I can’t sleep.” I replied.

“Want to sit down?” He asked, patting his bed. I smiled and sat beside him as he folded the case on his ebook and set it on his bedside table.

“Lift up a second.” He said, and I lifted, letting him lift his duvet. “Okay, sit down again.” He said, and under the duvet I caught a glimpse of his boxers. I flushed, cursing myself.

I settled in beside him and he said “You sound like you need a cuddle.” Before raising his arm. I looked at it unsure. “I’m not too old to cuddle my own mum, I’m never gonna be that kid.” He said cheerfully.

I nestled into his chest and he wrapped his arm around me, his fingers brushing my bare arm.

“You’re the one who needs a cuddle.” I said jokingly.

“I know, I want a cuddle too, I forgot how good mum-cuddles are.” He said.

On reflection, my nightie was a bit on the skimpy side and I was certain he was staring down the front at my cleavage. I looked up and saw him looking straight down at my breasts and he blushed. “Sorry mum, some intsincts are too much to fight. They are just kinda there.” He said.

“Sorry honey.” I said, trying to pull the neckline together a bit.

He muttered “Shit” under his breath and I saw him smother a growing shape at waist-level under the duvet. I giggled and said “I’m sorry honey I didn’t expect that reaction.”

“Sorry mum.” He said sheepishly. “Damn thing’s even worse now, anything can set it off. Not that you’re not worth it, I mean…” he stumbled over himself.

“It’s okay sweetheart, I understand.” I said reassuringly, grateful my own arousal was invisible, because I could feel it myself, I was tingling and soon I was going to progress from moist to leaving a wet patch on my son’s bedsheet. What the hell was going on?

My son cleared his throat awkwardly and I noticed that my nipples were poking right through my nightie, hard as pencil-tips. I cursed and this time it was my son’s turn to reassure. “Don’t worry mum, looks like we’re both just a bit frustrated.”

“You aren’t kidding.” I agreed, folding my arms over my breasts.

“I just don’t get how you can be, I mean if I was married to a gorgeous woman who wore stuff like that to bed every night I doubt I’d get any sleep.” He said.

I looked into his eyes. “Is this a bit too sexy?” I asked, looking down at my nightie. “I’m only wearing boxers.” He said, lifting the duvet, and I saw his blue checkered boxers, concealing a full size erection. “It might have been a while but we have seen it all before.” He reasoned. I nodded, agreeing. “But you didn’t react like THAT last time.” I quipped. He laughed. “Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s okay, at least I know I still got it.” I joked.

“In spades.” My son agreed.

After a beat of silence, he said “They look even bigger than my exes.”

I flushed and looked at him, then down at my breasts. “You think so? I thought she had quite large boobs?”

“She did, but yours look huge. Never really looked this closely before.”

I rested my hand on his smooth bare chest. “Well she was stupid giving this up.” I said, and I meant it, he was in pretty damn good shape.

“What were her breasts like naked?” I asked tentatively.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. She always kept her bra on.”

“What?”

My son shrugged. “She didn’t like her body, too self conscious. It was curtains shut, lights out, bra on. Like I said today, I want an older, more confident woman. I mean you go to bed in this, you look amazing. You’re my own mum and even I doubt I’d say no.” He said in a tone I guessed had to be joking but gave away a faint water-testing vibe.

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