A Question of Sex

Helen skeptically peeked at me out of the corner of one shaded, cobalt eye and for a brief second, I caught a quick glimpse of a half-smile before she buried a reddened face back into my lap. For the first time ever and not like a typical mother/son exchange, I believed I caught her permission to fondle her body in a more "adult" manner. But how could that ever be possible? I doubted the impression I'd received and continued to step lightly and mask my devious feelings.

In the meantime, in the few seconds that I spied her voluptuous curves, my seven inches of debauchery sprang to life. The next time that she attempted to reposition her head on my upper thigh she startled visibly. This pillow had grown rather lumpy. Helen was too modest to broach the subject, in fact she stammered to speak at all, but she quickly mentioned that it was time for bed and began to rise. Her blue eyes grew wide when she caught my embarrassed reaction and her lids dropped to hide the crimson blush rising from her neck to her hairline. Was she reading my thoughts? She hesitantly took another rapid glance at the prodigious bulge that was now tenting my shorts and she gathered her gown against her throat, clutching it tightly as if frightened. That motion served to hike the sheer material, forcing it to uncover her pink panties without her intent. As she scrambled to stand in front of me and remove herself from this indelicate situation, it suddenly became painfully obvious to the both of us that the gusset of her undies was turning a darker shade of red and that there was an enticing, sensual aroma in the air. Right before our eyes, a darker, damper splotch colored her pink panties.

Her hormones were surging and now her breathing was becoming rapid and erratic. Her perky nipples were nearly poking through the fine lace and her chest was rising and falling in uncontrollable waves. It was more than just spotting the raging hard-on in my shorts that was suddenly jutting from the loose leggings and rearing its flared purplish head into view. That sinister display would have placed the shameful blame of this scene entirely on me, as a leering son having impure, lewd thoughts about his own mother. But there was more to it than only that. I had not realized it at the moment, but it was apparent that the close contact and sensual touching had aroused her senses. Her own body belied her best intentions. She became nervous and jittery.

Helen's facial features blushed readily and distorted her angular look. Her eyes suddenly flashed with confusion and her cheeks expanded rapidly like they'd been inflated. And her mouth hung open and gasped as if she could not get enough oxygen. Those long bare legs shuffled uneasily back and forth, and the painted nails clutched at the carpet to keep from toppling over. All in the span of a second, but it was impossible to hide, or to take back. Because she saw what I saw. As we both looked at her dampened crotch, and then the angry monster stirring at my pelvis, there could be no doubt that there was sexual tension sparking like electricity in the air. Her pointy nipples barely concealed by the sheer fabric, poked through the thin material and the sudden rush of sweat caused the gown to cling to her body, outlining every delightful fold and crevise. Her knees locked together and almost buckled while one hand gripped the hem of her gown forcing it down, in a vain attempt to hide the evident moisture seeping into her panties.

I was helpless in my own predicament, staring at my mom's lusty build while my mischievous and lewd thoughts were instantly materialized by the dancing snake standing erect at my crotch. A tingly seepage of milky pre-cum oozed from the tip of my rock-solid erection and made shiny the dark, mushroomed dome of my cock. We both sensed and were uncomfortably confronted with the titillating tremor of taboo excitement that hovered above us.

My body shuddered noticeably as I hastened to stuff my engorged column back in my pants and to hurriedly cross my legs and disguise my anguish. I needed to tamp down the growing fury of my erection as it was straining to let loose its liquid fire. Already, as I maneuvered the writhing shaft back inside my shorts; a thin, sticky vine of oily fluid stretched from the tip of my helmeted cock to the desperately shaking fingers trying their best to corral the intruder. It was so engorged and stiff, that I needed both hands to stuff it back into place. Out of sight for a minute but not done with its phallic prompt, the ignition was lit. It was like a salami about to burst. I could feel the unsubtle trembling as the momentum rose through the shaft, and tried desperately to think about batting averages or term papers. Anything that would dampen the fuse. I was squirming in my seat and unable to fully stop the flow as I felt the first trickle of fluid drip from the tip and slide down the length, darkening the pulsating mound between my legs. I desperately wanted to wrap my hand around the sturdy shaft and pump it to its robust conclusion, but in this situation, I could not. And so I was forced to sit dubiously as my lower half shook and the usual thrust of my tool was reduced to a limpid drizzle that oozed pathetically but agonizingly down the coiled length of my deflating rod. I could not help but slowly turn my attention to my mother as I silently groaned, and the sticky puddle embarrassingly grew in my shorts.

With her hand still clutching the gown to her throat but hereyes never deviating from my crotch, I saw that the palm of that hand was perched on the upper half of her left breast and there was obviously some pressure being applied to the heaving globe. And as her grip on the neck lightened she shifted positions, her hand was now under her tit, lifting and seeming to weigh it as her fingers traced tiny circles around the pert nipple. With each slow, sensual navigation of the hefty mammary, her sexy hips shifted from side to side, and back and forth. With each shift of her weight, those sexy boobs bounced enticingly. Mom's mouth was hanging obscenely open and a small line of slobber leaked from her lips. The hand that had been covering her groin now seemed to be pressing against it and the fingers twirling in between her thighs. With her finger tips turning white, it was evident that she was pushing down a little bit harder. Small grunts esca[ped her lips.

She then caught my expression of embarrassed bemusement as it seemed we were both trapped in an unwieldy dilemma. Realizing the effect of this twenty-second interlude on both of our bodies; try as she might to calmy extricate the hand from its cupping posture under her breast and drag it away from her heaving bosom, and to shift her weight to camouflage the wet spot in her groin, and the slowly deflating form of my half-spent cock clearly marked by the dampened shroud of my shorts, it was undeniable that we both had just experienced an unplanned, seduction-free, physical stimulation to a highly erotic, semi-incestual, but all too brief coupling. The main question though, was what triggered it? And what exactly did it mean?

This might take a minute to sort out. There we were, basically frozen in place. Each of us cynically avoiding eye contact while we were less than two feet apart. And as quickly as our limbs moved to assume a more natural, socially acceptable position of innocence, there could be no hiding the fact that our respective virtues had been inelegantly compromised while in the immediate company of each other. The seeping bulge in my shorts and the trance-like stupor that held me in its grip left me stunned like a deer in the headlights.

Mom, despite all of the jittery dance steps and the fleeting attempts to smooth her rumpled clothing and to vigorously mop the telltale sweat from her brow in a non-sexual, lady-like manner could only utter incoherent gasps and groans. Her body was still moist from flop-sweat and her breasts shone through the lacy material like beacons. And most mortifying to her was the pinkish triangle of material nearly glowing in its distinctiveness between the damp fabric that clung to her hips, and that humiliating center strip of darker color that couldn't disguise her wetness. In another second, without an intelligible word voiced but with an unmistakably expressive show of shame that began at her icy-blue orbs and traveled to her hot-pink toenails, a look that was fraught with tremulous meaning, she darted from the room and I heard the door to the bathroom slam shut behind her. This had all the makings of an uncomfortable night.

I could hear the splash of bathwater as I shuffled to my bed. Trying not to imagine my mother's glistening torso as she settled into a warm tub while staring at my own raging cock as I lay warily in bed, only produced agonizingly slow torture. With every little ripple of water or halting sigh that I detected through the thin wall that kept us apart, I harkened back to those frozen moments in the living room where I unmistakably caught my mom in the throes of masturbatory pleasure. And the quirky, confounding visage that had me thinking. Was she totally embarrassed at my having seen her practically fingering her own cunt? Or was she so enthralled at the sight of my raging erection and her having been the source of its enlargement, that she couldn't help but play with her pussy? Was she so blatantly offering herself to me in a moment of submissive weakness, and was disappointed and distraught that I didn't take her up on her proposition? Or were we merely entangled in an inappropriate and highly bizarre scenario that neither of us should have witnessed, and must trust that we will never speak of it again?

When is it permissible to have explicit and degrading sexual fantasies about the semi-nude, warm, wet body that just minutes ago, was reclining in your lap and had apparently experienced the exact sexual tingling in both her mind and body that you did- if it's your mother!?! And how do you explain that same sexual urgency to yourself, to her, or heaven-forbid later to the prison psychiatrist? And how exactly do you suppress it?

My belly and pubic hair were damp and crusty with the flaky remains of my first truly unsatisfying discharge in years. All I could see in my perverted vision was my mom, undulating in rapt pleasure (I think,) underneath me as I caressed her soft flesh. She was so smitten with my erotic massage and gentle touch that she needed to play with herself right in front of me. And she couldn't take her lovely blue eyes from the sight of my massive cock. And what should have been a tremendous explosion of cum and a triumphal signal of my masculinity, instead became a sickly, watery discharge that was only allowed to dribble from my constricted cock, mocking me in front of the woman of my dreams.

The half-limp organ laid like a flattened tire in the sweaty, coarse curls of my pubic thatch. The lidless eye stared at me in disbelief as I tried to rouse it back to full attention, just picturing my mother's naked body soaking on the other side of this wall. My grip tightened around the withered pole, pumping and stretching it to its full girth and length. Gradually as the seductive image came back into focus, her warm body with rivulets of steaming water cascading down between her shimmering cleavage, the wrinkles disappeared from my tool and the meaty organ had that familiar feeling again. A pulsing pressure-point of anticipation just below the helmeted tip was urging my hand to glide up and down the firm column of flesh and with my palm increasing the tension, it was ready to supply the normal level of sublime fulfillment.

I was so close to fucking my mother, I kept repeating to myself as I stroked the aching organ in my grip. I felt the digits hover over the domed cap enough to spread the oily lubrication down the veiny length. With each swipe of my enclosed fist, the shaft of smooth flesh throbbed and seemed to take in breath. It enlarged and engorged itself until it resembled a sleek, curved bowling pin of wet marble, heavy as a club and ready for use.

I have "pulled the goalie" many times and though it always produces the desired effect, at my age I'm usually left feeling miserable and ashamed. But this time, stretching my swollen cock and pumping it with the rapid motion of a shotgun, while picturing the plump, pink lips of my sexy mother wrapped tightly around the bulging circumference of my pounding rod, was thrill enough to shoot a load of cum almost over my head and nearly splattering across my own face. As I wiped the sticky swampland of fluid from my body, I was stricken with an image of the lower regions of hell. One orgasm was a leaky, limpid disater. The next, a fountain of incestuous imbecility.

In my mind, I knew that the lewd thoughts of my disillusioned mother soaking away her own anxiety and fear just a few feet away, should not have triggered this incestuous fantasy of debauchery. I had obviously caught her at a highly vulnerable point, thinking of her prospects and passions, while experiencing the life-blood of emotions that everybody has, and then unwittingly revealing them to her supposedly adult son. This should not be cause for a major jerk-off delusion! And yet even after the deluge had subsided, my cock remained solid and ready to perform again.

Then in the stillness, I heard her emerge from the bath. I could explicitly visualize her naked, dripping torso as she stepped from the tub. The strawberry-blonde locks in a tussled bun at her neck, fragrant bubbles of lotion clinging to the wet strands. Wisps of hair cling to her bare, golden shoulders and frame her worried face. Flushed from emotion and the steamy water, a redness colored her sharp cheekbones and brought out the dazzling blue hue of her eyes. But her plump red lips couldn't hide the fact that she had bitten them hard for most of her bath, and the twinkle in her eyes didn't veil the conflicting, erotic torments that battled for her attention.

When her toes touch the carpet, the water flowed down her gorgeous anatomy. The steamy frame; reddened from the hot suds glisten as the stream funnels between her tits and aims for the light-brown landing strip of kinky curls that guard her most private opening. I could picture the puffy lips of her labia after she presumably spent her bathtime fingering the petals of her private flower. She probably laid her head back against a folded towel, sinking as much of her body under the warm flow as she could. Only the pointy tips of her buoyant breasts peaked above the water level. The layer of sudsy foam washed over her, but a translucent outline of her floating form would be discernable. As her hand swept towards her pubes, the tide of warm bubbles flooded along her stomach and washed against her chin.

The erect tips of her rubbery nubs drew her fingers to them, and she gently stretched and rubbed the sensitive nipples while circling the pebbly edges of the darker-toned areola. Helen's eyes closed as she imagined that it was a stranger's hand or maybe even his pinching teeth that pulled the taut flesh and heightened the sensual stimulation. She would be alternately purring like a kitten and then moaning like a whore.

When her self-conducted foreplay set the mood, she was ready to progress to the next stage. Her nipples were now sufficiently tender and swollen, poking up above the surface of the water like tiny pink periscopes and her hand continued to knead and caress the soapy globes. Down below in the foamy triangle, her other hand caused a whirlpool of watery friction to roil the suds and buffet the dainty skin. Helen had a set routine that always calmed her antsy yearnings while bringing her genital nerve endings to a heightened sense of arousal. Two fingers would lightly tease the tender orifice by tickling the fleshy hood, luring the tiny nub into the open. She massaged the sensitive niblet, causing her highly-tensed hips to quiver and shake with orgasmic anticipation. She knew from general practice just how much she could stand and what the tremors and twitches from her uterus signified.

At this point, she lowered her hungry body even further into the warm, sudsy water, submerging her upper half to her chin but now lifting her long, bare legs to the sides. She directed the powerful stream of the faucet to wash over her convulsing pubic area, applying a steady pulsing flow to rain on her pleasure center. The drenching shower tapped repeatedly on the exposed finger of flesh peeking from its protective hood. The shock to her system sent waves of ecstasy throughout her quivering anatomy. Lightning bolts of delight shot through her system. And brought her to the very brink of orgasmic eruption. Helen's body rocked and shivered under the soapy surface as her limber frame basked in the twitching build-up of energy about to detonate in her sodden cunt. A couple of slender, exploring digits splayed the sensitive outer lips and pried open the cavern to their demanding approach. She felt the exciting tremors of desire working a path to meet the incoming fingers and realized the moment was near.

To my warped mind, confined to listening voyeuristically through the walls, I concluded that this ritual took on a new phase for her. A twist that was brought on by the uncertain realization that in her frazzled mind an incestuous, lewd fling with her well-hung stud of a son, would fulfill her most basic and carnal urges. She desperately tried to ignore this passion. But she wasn't allowed. Her fingers worked furiously to tunnel into that intimate sanctum, a spot no other person in years has had access to, a spot that I calculated that she was saving for me.

She tightly clenched her eyes and cleared her head, centering all feelings and emotions to that long-deprived "Y" and allowing her fingers to reach deep inside searching for that mysterious destination that launches her into the stratosphere of delight. Her feelings at these times were always magnified if she could request that the "stranger" who had been caressing her tits, would now lower his face to her appreciative pussy. She could sense his tongue lapping at the edges of her folds and darting into the moist recesses of those slippery walls. This man's touch could bring these marvelous sensations to her aching body and her imagination soared under the influence of this anonymous manipulation. And when his raspy tongue had thoroughly lubricated her moist passage, he would require her to beg for the use of his mammoth cock. It was no longer her own digits that delved so deep, penetrating through to the inner recesses of her vagina. She imagined that it was his enormous rod that plowed her wanton furrows. Helen could always count on this stranger- impersonal as he was- to appear when she needed him and then dissappear just as readily. No hassles.

And she could see clearly the large, solid cock that was opening her like a clam. It was streaked with rigid bluish veins that crisscrossed its cylindrical column and had a flared, purplish head that seemed obscenely robust for her tiny orifice. This singular cock was etched in her memory as something she so desired and hungered for. Usually, it was just a tool that she dreamed of while her fingers were busy exploring those wet folds, but this was different. This particular man's cock was special. She had a vivid image of the straining, vibrant tube as the only tool that would scratch her singular itch. This was the cock that would bring out the woman in her. The cock that would mark her as this fantasy man's property, to fuck him when he pleased. And for it to provide the pleasure in her pussy and in her soul, that only it could deliver. She needed this cock and was desperate for it. To possess it, she would debase and demean herself. Slavishly begging for his domination of her slutty holes. She would suck it and fuck it, whatever he demanded to bring her the guilty pleasure of an explosive sexual climax. Plus the internal, salacious dream to be his pet.