I arrived at the house at around 3:00 in the afternoon, and couldn't believe my eyes as I followed the long, curving drive into the courtyard. The place was absolutely immense, and I couldn't imagine how it was that we were staying there for the weekend.
Mom had called me two weeks before to tell me that she had to come east for a weeklong conference about three hours from my home. She continued to tell me that an acquaintance of hers had offered her the use of his house for the weekend.
"All of the domestic help will be on vacation, but he said I have free run of the place."
"Domestic help?" I thought. "Who IS this guy, and how does he know my mom?"
"Anyway," she continued. "I thought it might be fun if you could join me there for a couple of days."
I didn't have to think long. My own family would be out of town that weekend, the beginning of a weeklong trip to the beach with another family. Work was keeping me home, but my weekend was free.
"Sure." I said. "Where is this place?"
She went on to give me direction and I realized that it was about halfway between her hotel and my house, so we could just meet there on Saturday.
That Saturday morning, as I packed a small suitcase, a thought flitted across my conscious mind. How this scenario seemed like the set-up for one of my many fantasies about her over the years. I grinned to myself and chuckled a little bit, slightly embarrassed as always in the light of day at some of the debauchery my mind has created.
Like most boys, I first started having sexual thoughts about my mom during adolescence, when my hormones were raging especially hard, and everything was about my newfound sexuality.
Unlike many boys, I actually got up the nerve to act upon it. One night when I was about 15, my stepfather had his regular group of friends over, and I pulled Mom aside in the hallway. I told her about the recurring dream I'd been having where she led me from the house during one of these get-togethers and took me to a hotel where we.....
"Well... you know." I grinned.
She had been looking at me calmly and closely while I explained. After the above statement, she smiled slightly, but brightly and nodded her head.
"So... can we?" I asked.
And here is one of the things that makes my mom so great: she didn't freak out. She didn't slap me or call me a vile, nasty creature. She simply looked at me with her kind blue eyes and that small grin and shook her head slowly from side to side.
"No, honey." She said softly. "I'm very flattered that you think of me that way, and I know that it's not uncommon for boys your age to have thoughts like this. But that is just something that you and I cannot do."
Having realized ahead of time that it was a long shot, I was merely disappointed, rather than totally dejected. I climbed the stairs back up to my room, and went back to reading my book. It was a couple of days before I really thought about how lucky I was that the whole thing hadn't blown up in my face. Not that MY mom would've reacted badly ... I've always been able to talk to her about anything, but realizing how lucky I was to have the mom that I did, rather than one of my friends' moms. They would have no doubt ended up being punished horribly, and probably subjected to years of psychiatric counseling for merely expressing a taboo sexual impulse.
Back then, my mom wore her dark hair to her shoulders, in a loose perm. At the time I didn't exactly leer at her, or become overly engrossed in her body, other than her full breasts and hips. There was just something about her, aside from being my mom that just hooked me and never quite let go. As I got older, I recognized her body more and more, but that'll come later.
Something that used to happen from time to time was a type of massage my mother would give me. I was always doing crazy stuff and getting myself injured, so I was usually suffering from some sort of muscle pain. Rather than a traditional massage, this was more like an eastern "laying on of hands" type of thing. No oils or nudity were involved, and it rarely had sexual overtones, even for me.
One day, after an hour or two of slowly stroking myself to a stack of porn magazines (this was in the pre-internet era), Mom called from downstairs and asked me if I wanted a "treatment" as we called them. She could always tell when I was particularly sore. She still can, actually. She says there's something in my face, in the way I hold my jaw or something, which tells her I'm hurting more than normal. After years of chronic pain, you learn to hide it from the world, because people get sick of hearing you whine about it all the time. But a Mom can always tell.
I agreed to the treatment, and my lust-filled mind suddenly came up with an idea. I quickly found my favorite pictures in each of the magazines on my bed. All were of gorgeous, large-breasted brunettes in various states of dress and activity. I then folded the magazines over, with those pages up, and scattered them around my room in what I hoped was a haphazard-looking way. One was peaking out from under my dresser. One each at each side of the bed, almost under it. Another was partially covered by a pair of jeans on the floor. Looking back on it now, and seeing the level of subtlety that most 16 year old boys are capable of; I'm sure that what I thought was a creative way of showing Mom what I was thinking about, was actually a ham-fisted exercise in obviousness.
When she entered the room ten minutes later in a thin white blouse with no bra beneath it, and white cotton pants, I was sitting up in bed reading a novel. She clapped her hands together and rubbed her palms quickly back and forth against each other to warm them.
"Ready?" She smiled.
"Yep." I replied, setting my book aside and flipping over onto my stomach.
She started at my shoulders, and worked her way down. As I said before, this isn't your typical massage. Odd as it may sound, it's more about the idea of removing negative energy from one's body and helping them relax and heal than it is about manually kneading the muscles.
Her light touch continued down my body. I was getting a little aroused just wondering if she had noticed any of the photos. I always had my eyes closed during these treatments, so I never knew if she closed hers in concentration as well, or if she was looking around the room as she worked on me. I knew if she saw them, she would instantly know why they were there, and the more I thought about it, the harder I got.
My feet were hanging just off of the bed, toes pointing toward the floor. In order to work on my lower legs, she would kneel on the floor at the foot of the bed. This time, I noticed something distinctly different from any other. As she leaned in to reach up toward my knees, her breasts were coming in contact with the soles of my feet. I was sure it was incidental contact, but my cock didn't care. It was soon raging and throbbing against my belly so hard I thought for sure it was lifting me off the mattress a little bit.
The only body parts that received more of a traditional massage were my hands and feet. These hold so many pressure points and carry so much of the body's tension; it is a wonderful release to have them firmly massaged. And this time, yet another new development occurred. Mom picked up both my feet at the same time and rested them on her chest. While she worked on one, the other was comfortably nestled between those two wonderful globes of soft, taut flesh – separated by only a thin layer of cotton.
When it was time for me to turn over, I did so without hesitation. Yes, I was anxious for her to see my hard-on, and I knew the thin sweat pants I was wearing would do little to conceal it as it pushed insistently against the fabric.
She couldn't have missed it, as both of her hands were within less than an inch of it for several minutes as she finished the treatment. Yet she said nothing. No gasp. No sigh. And surely no storming off in a huff. She knew as well as I did that it was perfectly natural under the circumstances. I was just hoping that it might give her a little thrill, or even get her wheels turning a little bit.
It might have been a flight of fancy or over-active imagination, but when she left the room that day it sure looked to me as though her nipples were hard enough to cut glass.
I had already had sex by this point, but soon after met the first of a string of girlfriends who taught me quite a lot about sex. On of whom openly admitted to having a huge crush on my mom. That little nugget of information made for some serious wank-time, I can tell you that.
It wasn't until my early twenties that my lustful urges for my own mother brought me to verbalize anything again. By this time I was married (still am) to a wonderful, sexy woman with long dark hair and large gorgeous tits.
One night I was home alone. I now had access to the internet and was just beginning to discover all of its wonderful free pornography. I was drinking beer, and softly stroking myself when the phone rang. Since we didn't have caller ID yet, I had no idea who was on the other end of the line. I almost didn't aswer, because I knew it was probably one of my wife's friends, and I usually prefer to let voice-mail handle the message-taking around here. For some reason, I picked up just before the answering machine kicked on.
"Hi." Came the voice from the other end of the line. It's what she always says when I answer the phone. Always with the same inflection, and tone. Happy to hear my voice, glad to have caught me at home.
I resisted the urge to say: "I was just thinking about you." And we talked about generalities for a little while. Finally she asked me why I was up so late.
"Just surfin' the net." I responded.
"Oh, yeah?" She asked. "What're you doing?"
"What the hell." I thought. I was more than a little buzzed, and SUPER horny. Stroking my dick to a fantasy-picture of my mom while talking to her on the phone was making me hornier than I'd been in months.
"Looking at pictures right now." I answered as casually as I could.
"Oh, yeah? What of?" She asked.
"Well.... Remember when I was like fifteen and I tried to get you to take me to a hotel?" I asked.
There was a brief pause on the line. From 3000 miles away she took in what I had said. She recovered quickly, but responded slowly.
"Well..... That's what I'm thinking about while I look at these pictures."
Another pause, this time a little bit longer. "Oh..... Well, I think you might be a little disappointed in the reality compared to the fantasy these days." She said, obviously alluding to the passage of time and it's effect on her body.
"I don't think so." I responded quickly. "One of my favorite things about all of my fantasies is that I try to keep them as realistic as possible. You have aged in my fantasies just as you have in real life."
Another pause, this one even longer than the last. I just kept stroking, imagining her getting turned on, but not sure what to do about it. Was my step-dad sitting right next to her? Was she flashing back to any thoughts she might have had about my 16 year-old erection during that treatment years ago? Was she considering admitting to similar fantasies lo these many years?
"Well, I guess that's smart." Was all she said.
"Yeah." I agreed. "This way, I'm never disappointed by the real thing."
We stayed on the phone for a while after that, but she must have deftly changed the subject.
Since that night, any implication of my continuing fantasies has been limited to an occasional late night phone call. On those rare occasions when I'm home alone late at night, buzzed and fantasizing about her, I will sometimes call her cell phone while standing directly in front of the TV as a particularly hot sex scene plays on DVD. I will then casually leave a message, hoping that the moans and cries of "Yeah..... fuck me." Will carry across the ether and into her subconscious as she listens to my words.
The last time I did it was the first time I've orgasmed, and I came in huge streaming spurts all over the carpet of my bedroom. It was one of the best orgasms I've had in years. The volume on the TV was up really loud, and the scene was of a beautiful brunette being righteously fucked by two guys with large, perfect cocks. She was enjoying herself immensely and was being very vocal about it. I tried to keep my voice steady and normal throughout my message, but is that really possible while having a mind-numbing orgasm?
I have wondered several times since if she knows that I was coming during the end of that message. I suspect that she does.
She called me at work the next day, casual as anything. She said that when she got my message, she didn't know if it was too late to call me back. She claimed that her cell phone doesn't tell her what time a message came through. This is 2006.... Is there such a thing as a cell phone that takes photos, video and email (as hers does) yet fails to time-stamp it's voice mail messages or incoming calls? If so, I haven't seen it. And if not.... She was fibbing. And if she was fibbing, I want to know why, because I can only see the reason for that fib boding well for me.
I honked the horn twice quickly as I shut of the engine, then reached into the back seat and grabbed my duffel bag before climbing out of the car and heading for the door. The steps to the front door reminded my of the steps to a museum. Maybe the Art Museum in Philadelphia, the ones Rocky ran up during that famous scene. Not quite that huge or tall, but easily the biggest set of residential steps I've ever seen.
When I was about 5 steps from the top, the latch clicked in the front door and it swung slowly inward. The bright sun of the summer afternoon made it hard for me to see inside the foyer, but I could clearly see the silhouette of a person in the doorway. A split-second later, she emerged into the sunshine with a huge smile crinkling the skin around her bright blue eyes.
Long gone are the shoulder length curls, replaced by a low maintenance close-cropped hairdo. But rather than the heavy, oversized shirts and understated trousers I've come to expect from her over the last few years; she was wearing (if I wasn't mistaken) the same white cotton outfit she used to wear for my treatments. The only addition being a pair of high-heeled sandals.
I was now 35 years old, and she in her late 50's, but the sight of that outfit immediately sent my mind into overdrive. I felt my cock swiftly engorging with blood, running its usual course up toward my belly button.
In her left hand she held a large glass of white wine. In her right, a freshly opened bottle of beer. The latter she extended toward me and said:
"Welcome to Adult Disneyland."
~to be continued~