Getting To Know You

“What ...exactly?”

“I would make you dress up the way I wanted ... the way I liked.”

“Which was ...?”

I fidgeted in the chair, still feeling both aroused and embarrassed. “In one of your tight ribbed-sweaters, a short skirt ... black seamed-stockings and suspenders ...and black high-heeled shoes.”

Just saying those words in front of my mother ... to my mother ... was so unbelievably erotic and exciting.

“And then what did you make your poor mummy do for you ...?”

Again I hesitated. “How ...er ... graphic do you want me to be?”

“I want you to tell me the truth ... what you really thought. Don’t be so nervous, I’ve heard it all before you know!”.

“Have you? But not from me ...”

“No, that’s true ... but that’s what makes it so ... interesting.” She smiled a smile that was at once both shy and sensuous.

“I would make you partially undress slowly for me whilst I sat in the armchair and watched. You’d remove your sweater and skirt, but not your lingerie. Then you would start to hug and kiss me just like a mother would, seeming to be unaware that you were only half-dressed. But the hugs and kisses would become more intimate ... and you’d begin to whisper things to me.”

“And what did I say in these whispers?”

I was coming to the heart of my incest fantasy here, and I was still very unsure about revealing its true depth. “ Well ... you know sexy things.”

“Sexy things? That sounds a bit vague ... What did I actually say to you?”

I said nothing.

“This is hard for you?” she whispered with sudden insight. “Revealing you private fantasy life ... to the object of your fantasies? I do understand ... but you see I ... I want to share your fantasy ... if you don’t mind, of course? My life is empty now and so dull. I am tempted by the excitement of what you say.”

“Tempted?” I whispered.

For a long time she was silent, and then at length she began to explain what she meant.

“When I was with your Father my role was to be object of his fantasies. Not only did I enjoy this, but I came to find it as my way ... my only way... of exploring the depths of my own sexuality. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so” I answered, but without any certainty.

“It was my route to sexual satisfaction. Your Father wanted it ... loved it ... and it was good and acceptable and right for both of us. It came to be MY fantasy too ... my legitimate fantasy. I could be and do anything I wanted ... but under the guise of doing it for him. D’you see what I mean?”

And suddenly I did.

“I understand” I whispered.

“So listening to your fantasies ... well ... it gives me a pleasure I thought I had lost forever.”

“Ok ...” I nodded. “That sounds good!”

“And maybe ...”

“Maybe...?”

“Well we’re both adults now ... maybe ... we could ...” she faltered lamely.

“What ...?” “Oh dear!” she sighed. “...help each other ... perhaps?”

“You mean...” I hesitated. “You don’t mean ... sexually?”

She sat with her head down, saying nothing.

“Share our fantasies ...together?” I whispered, half to myself, trying to take the idea in.

She looked up. “Mummy’s here ... if you want her?” she whispered softly.

I looked at her for a moment in astonishment. Despite all that had been said to that point, I just couldn’t get my head around the fact that she was (apparently) offering herself to me ... my own Mother!

“Oh ... “, she sighed, misunderstanding my look. “I’m sorry ... I ...”

“Oh Mother ... Mummy ...!” I whispered quickly. “You’re so wonderful ...”

She relaxed visibly and smiled shyly at me again.

“So ... tell me now what mummy said to you in your fantasy.”

“You whispered things in my ear,” I began. “Like ‘mummy knows what her little boy likes’, and ‘does baby want to touch his mummy’s stockings?” and “baby likes that doesn’t he?’. I looked at her, but she was just sitting and listening.

With a dry mouth I continued. “You’d sit on my lap and you’d put my hand on your stocking-tops, rubbing it back and forth. And you’d say, ‘is that nice baby, does that feel nice?’ Then you’d lift my hand to your ... your breast ... and you’d slip it inside your bra, and you’d say, ‘oh, that’s naughty. Baby shouldn’t be touching his mummy there, should he. Naughty, naughty baby!’”

As I spoke these words I saw my Mother’s hand move down towards her thigh. She sighed a soft gentle sigh.

“Then you would slip down from my lap and crouch between my legs, your head resting in my lap. And I’d say to you ‘... you want to touch it Mummy? You want to touch my dirty thing? ‘Oh yes baby’, you’d say. ‘I want to touch it ... and I want to kiss it ... and lick it ... and suck it’. Then you would unzip my trousers and take my penis in your mouth, and suck me slowly and gently. And then you’d say ‘does baby want to cum for mummy? Does baby want to cum. on mummy’s face.... in mummy’s mouth?”

I stopped, wondering again if I’d gone too far.

After a moment she looked at me with a strange look on her face. And then suddenly she stood up.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she whispered. “Wait for mummy ...”

Then she turned and left the room.

IV

I wasn’t quite sure what to make of this, but I waited patiently as she had requested. She returned some 15 minutes later, and it was instantly clear to me where she’d been and what she’d been doing. She had got changed ... ‘transformed’ would be a better word.

Gone were the baggy trousers and the long green pullover. Now she was wearing a skirt and a tight ribbed-sweater. Her skirt was fairly short and her long legs were clearly encased in tights or stockings. My instinctive prayer was answered immediately as she turned to close the door, and I could see thin dark seams running down the back of her stockings.

Her face and hair had been transformed too. She was wearing a light general make-up that blushed her cheeks, heavy blue mascara on her eye-lids, and dark ruby-red lipstick on her full lips. Consistent with this new image her hair was now down, streaming over her shoulders in a cascade of mingled white and gold.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just whispered, “Mummy ...?”

She came right over to my chair, and my first impression was that she would bend down and kiss my cheek or lips. But she didn’t. she stopped in front of me and stood quite still. I looked up at her face, but she was starting blankly into the distance.

“Mother?”, I asked in a confused voice.

There was a moments pause, and then she said, “Yes ... Master Johnny?”, still looking into the distance.

“Are you ok?”, I asked rather dimly, not twigging what was happening.

“I am here”, she began. “I am at your command.” And then she added, probably to clarify things for her dim-wit son, “tell me what I must do.”

The penny dropped.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, taken aback for a moment. “Er ... sit down,” I said, and then instantly regretted it.

“No!, Wait!” I interjected, and she stopped in the act of moving over to other armchair.

“Yes ... Master?” she whispered, knowing now that I understood.

“Take off your skirt mummy!” I hissed breathlessly.

Slowly and methodically, as if in a trance, her hands dropped to the side buttons and zip of her skirt. With a timing that was both immensely erotic and also unbearably tense, she slowly pulled down the zip, at last letting her skirt fall abandoned to the floor.

I sat there looking at her legs encased in those glorious fully-fashioned stockings that I remembered from my childhood. Their image was indelibly burnt into every fibre of my brain, and my eyes examined them in minute detail.

I stared at the smoky-black sheen that decorated, illuminated, and enhanced every inch of her legs: at the sudden bands of darkening material that led inexorably to the erotic blackness of her stocking-tops; at the stretch of the suspender clips placed at exquisitely perfect intervals in the darkness, and ... as she turned her body for me ... at the infinitely perfect straightness of those alluring seams that led up up to the forbidden land of incest.

Sitting in the armchair my eyes were level with the tops of her stockings, and seeing my utter and total fascination with her hosiery, she moved her legs and stockings closer to me. And then She just stood there waiting patiently, as if she knew just how much erotic pleasure was coursing through my soul at the sight of my own Mother dressed as I had always imagined she could be dressed. Indeed, it was as if she herself were enjoying my intimate and incestuous glance just as much as I, and was thus in no hurry to end the moment.

At length she whispered. “Does my little baby boy like mummy’s stockings?”

“Oh YES Mummy,” I muttered, totally lost in the magic of the moment. “Baby loves mummy’s stockings.”

“Does baby want to feel them ... feel mummy’s legs?”

“Oh God, yes!”

“It’s very dirty ... and naughty ... and filthy ... for mummy to let you touch her stockings and suspenders ...”

“Yes Mummy ...”

“But mummy is a dirty, filthy slut ... isn’t she? She wants her baby to feel her stockings ... to touch her ... to put his naughty dirty hands in all those places where he should never touch. Isn’t that right?”

“Oh yes Mummy ... please let me touch you, and feel you ... all over ...”

“Dirty little boy! Go on then, just this once ...”

“Oh thank you, thank you! “ I whispered over and over, as my hands reach out and touched her legs for the very first time.

Up and down her legs my hands wandered, feeling the material, feeling her stocking tops, feeling her thighs above. I fingered at the suspender clasps, and ran my hands endlessly across the tops of the stockings ... from skin to nylon and back again. And all the time I moved my face nearer and nearer to her thighs ... until my lips too were brushing her stockings and her skin.

VI

But as wonderful and erotic as it was, it was all too much for me to cope with. Suddenly I felt that this was wrong. I felt stricken with doubt and most of all with guilt. I took my hands from her and turned away.

“I can’t do this.” I whispered. “It’s wrong ...”

She stepped away abruptly. “John, it’s ok. It’s not wrong ... not if we BOTH want it.”

“How could I talk you into doing such a thing ...” I continued, almost to myself. “I am so dirty ... so disgusting!”

“Hmm ...” she mused. “I think you have too much damn guilt for your own damn good. I think this has all been hanging over you far too long.”

But I said nothing. I just sat there, wracked with embarrassment and guilt at what I had done.

Suddenly she stepped purposely back in front of me again. I looked up, and she had a strange forceful kind of look on her face.

“Stand up!” she commanded.

“What?” I whispered in confusion.

“Stand UP John!” she repeated.

Still feeling deeply troubled inside, I obeyed and rose to my feet.

She looked at me for a moment, and then hissed. “I knew it! You’re a fucking wimp, aren’t you!”

“WHAT!?”, I breathed

“No balls! Never did have. You’re just a fucking pussy. A dickless fucking baby!!”

To say I was confused and amazed by this transformation would be just a touch of an understatement.

“What do you mean? I ... I don’t understand ...”

And then she slapped me... hard across my cheek. “You baby!!” she shouted again. “You never had the guts to do anything did you? You could wank yourself silly thinking about fucking your mother, but you never had the guts to even vaguely indicate an interest, did you? What a good, nice, proper little boy you are ... ... What a dickless little shit!”

“Mother ...” I almost wailed at her. “What do you mean? I’m sorry for what I just did ... please ...”

“Oh Christ, see what I mean!” she hissed at me. “You’re just a ... fucking ... dickless ... little ... shit!”, and with each word she threw at me she slapped my face again.

I grabbed her hands, initially just to protect myself, to stop her hitting (and hurting!) me. But as we struggled together, and as the force of my strength started to overpower her, something changed inside me.

“I don’t deserve that!” I shouted at her, as I forced her hands round behind her back.

“Fucking baby!!” she hissed back at me. “Gutless wimp!!”

“Stop it” I said more calmly. “Stop it mother.”

“Oh yes ... and what you gonna do if I don’t?”

I said nothing, and for a moment we just stood there looking at each other. And then she suddenly tried to knee me in the groin. With a twist I avoided her knee, but the feelings that were rising inside me suddenly blossomed into anger.

“You bitch!” I said bitterly.

“How dare you call me a bitch!” she shouted back, struggling hard against my grip. “Let me go you dirty little shitface!”

I’m not sure exactly what happened next, but the anger that was growing exploded, and at the same time turned to something else. Suddenly I shifted my grip so that both her hands were held behind her with my arm, and with my free hand I grabbed at her breast and squeezed it hard.

She yelled out in pain, but I ignored it. I pushed her sweater up to her neck, and literally tore her bra from her body, my hand roughly pulling and squeezing at her still pert breasts.

Giving off a small cry like a frightened animal, she exclaimed hoarsely, “Oh God no! You’re not going to rape me? Your own mother ... NO!”

But by this time I was so aroused, so engrossed in what I was thinking and doing in my head, that I had no thought (or concern) for her, and the words ‘rape me’ only further ignited the fire of lust in my loins.

“FUCKING RIGHT!” I screamed at her, and I threw her violently to the floor. I suppose I was totally out of my mind. Indeed I literally tore most of the rest of her clothes (apart from the stockings of course) from her body ... viciously, and even brutally!

“Rape!” she hissed again. “Oh God, you’re raping your poor poor mummy ...”

And then, on the pretty rug in front of her small cosy fire, I proceeded to kneel across her chest, grab her hair and pull her head down towards the hard bulge in my pants. I pulled the dressing gown I was wearing apart. With one hand I held her head and with the other I strove to released my rampant cock from my trousers. “FUCKING OLD BITCH!!” I shouted at her. “I’ve got something here for you ... you filthy fucking bitch! Something I’ve wanted to give you for a long long time!”

As I pushed my straining cock towards her mouth her eyes widened, but with fear or with lust I no longer knew or care.

“Open your mouth Mummy ... OPEN YOUR MOUTH!” I roared at her. “I’m gonna cum in your bitch’s mouth and your gonna swallow it all! Mummy’s gonna swallow all baby’s CUM!”

Her mouth quivered and parted slightly, and before she (or indeed I) knew exactly what was happening, I had thrust my hard cock deep into her mouth and down her throat. Holding her head to my waist, and forcing the entire length of my cock into her mouth, I screamed. “Take it all Mummy ... take it all!!”

At fist she struggled wildly, but the more she struggled the more I kept thrusting into her face It was as if something was breaking free inside me, and all the pain and anger and frustration that I felt towards her (and maybe towards all women?) was finding it’s voice (or rather, it’s action!) at last.

“Fucking Bitch! Fucking Slut!” I whispered in time with each thrust. “This what you want, isn’t it. This is what you need!”

And then the crescendo broke and I came in brutal floods, filling her mouth and throat with my semen. Ignoring her choking and spluttering, I just kept ramming my cock forwards and, at the same time, thrusting her head down on to me. At that moment in time I had no thought of her welfare, or indeed of her at all, I just fucked and fucked her face as hard as I could ... until every drop of cum was projected from my body and into her mouth.

And as I did so I kept repeating over and over. “Swallow it down mummy, swallow all my fucking cum!”

VII

It was not for several minutes after this explosion of lust and passion that I began to come back to some semblance of normality. I had dropped back into the chair, and simply sat there with my eyes closed. Now I opened my eyes to and looked at my mother. She lay, naked apart from her stockings and suspenders, on the floor in front of the fire. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was slightly open and a trickle of white fluid was running down her cheek. Even from the chair I could see that her face and lips were bruised.

“Oh God!” I muttered. “What have I done?”

Her eyes fluttered and slowly opened.

“Don’t worry John, please. I have been so naughty and I deserved that.”

“What!” I exclaimed.

“I’ll be good now,” she went on. “I will behave myself. I will be a proper mummy to you. I’ll do anything you want ... anything.”

“I’m so ... sorry ...” I tried to say, but she interrupted me again.

“No!!. Don’t be sorry. You’re a strong powerful MAN ... and I’m just a poor defenceless old woman. I must do whatever you want. That’s right ... that’s how it should be”.

I was silent for moment thinking about what she was saying. Slowly I began to realise that what I had just done had been prompted by her actions ... that she had wanted me to do it. Dimly I understood that part of the reason was to free me from my guilt, but also from the inaction and weakness that my guilt had engendered in me. She was trying to lift me from a childhood of incestuous fantasy that had led to a crippling guilt. God, she was a wonderful woman!

But also I understood that she herself wanted something from this exchange. It wasn’t just a noble sacrifice. Maybe this is how she’d been with my dad ... I don’t really know. But whatever had happened in the past she seemed to have taken a great deal of sexual pleasure from being the abused woman ... and now it seemed as if she wanted to be the abused mother.

I wondered if that could possibly be right. Was I imagining it?

But then, as if in confirmation of my thoughts, she lifted herself up on one elbow, smiled seductively at me and whispered.

“Mummy is sorry; mummy will do anything her baby asks ... mummy is here for you now ... mummy is your slave ...”

“Oh ...really?” was all I could think to say.

To be continued