I Love You and Want You, Mom

I loved feeling my son's hands on my nightgown clad, nearly, naked body. It made me sexually excited to feel his erection poking against my ass crack while he gently humped me. I swooned when he cupped my breast in the palm of his hand while feeling the heaviness of it. It made me so horny when he touched my ass, felt my ass, squeezed my ass, and slapped my ass through my nightgown.

In the way that he enjoyed feeling and squeezing my nightgown clad ass, he enjoyed feeling and fondling my big tits through my nightgown too. Only, not wanting to get too sexually aroused, wanting to remain in control, I didn't allow him to go inside my nightgown. I didn't allow him feel my naked breasts, finger my nipples, or finger my wet pussy. Instead, giving us both something to masturbate over later while in the privacy of our rooms, I didn't think there was anything wrong with him touching me and feeling me through my nightgown.

"I don't mind you feeling my ass and my tits through my nightgown, Jason, but not my nipples and not my naked pussy. Just as I don't want you to finger my nipples, I don't want you to finger my pussy. I don't want you to touch me beneath my nightgown," I said when he fingered my nipples anyway. A small concession to make, I enjoyed him touching me and feeling me but I didn't want him sexually arousing me. "Okay," he said removing his fingers from my nipples.

If it wasn't enough that he was sleeping in the same bed with me while holding me, cuddling me, spooning me, and feeling my ass and tits through my sexy, sheer nightgown, he looked at me with disappointment. He looked at me as if we were at the mall and I didn't buy him a toy. He looked at me as if we were at the grocery store and I didn't buy him the cereal he wanted.

Only, with one thing leading to another, I feared that if he sexually aroused me, I'd want to have sex with him. If he sexually aroused me, unable to control myself, I feared that I'd suck my son and fuck my son. The last thing that I needed was for my son to make me pregnant. Making me no different from the other sexually abused women in my neighborhood, the last thing that I wanted was to have my son's baby.

"Why not? Why can't I finger your nipples, Mama? I love your big tits. Why can't I touch your pussy under your nightgown? I love your wet pussy."

Trying to suppress my sexual arousal from talking dirty with my son, I rolled my eyes and sighed. Just as I'd love nothing more than for him to finger my nipples and perhaps, even suck my nipples, I'd love for him to finger my cunt and perhaps, even lick my pussy. Yet, not fair to either of us, I didn't want to start something that I couldn't finish.

"You'd sexually arouse me if you fingered my nipples and fingered my pussy. I'm allowing you in my bed not for sex but to sleep with me, cuddle me, comfort me, and spoon me," I said wiggling my nightgown clad ass against his pajama clad erection. "I'd rather you just hold me, hug me, and spoon me than sexually arouse me."

Then, returning the favor, when we turned the other way, I spooned him. In the way that he felt my ass and tits through my nightgown, I felt his erect cock through his pajama bottoms. Intentionally sexually exciting him, I fingered the head of his stiff prick and held his big dick in my hand through his pajamas. I knew he'd love me to pull out his cock and stroke him just as I knew he'd love me to suck him before fucking him, but what I was doing was bad enough.

I sexually teased my son. I incestuously enticed him. I flashed him my panties in up-skirt peeks and my naked pussy in up-nightgown glimpses. I flashed him my cleavage and low-cut bra in down-blouse views and my naked breasts in down-nightgown sights. Years before I had sex with him, once he turned 18-years-old, I allowed him to see me in my panties and bra, topless, and even naked, I allowed him to see my naked tits, my naked ass, and my naked pussy. Enamored with my big breasts, my son loved my big tits.

"I love your big tits, Mama," he said more than once and every time he saw my big, naked breasts. Suffice to say, giving us both something to masturbate over, I loved showing him my big, naked tits as much as he enjoyed seeing my big naked tits. "They'd so shapely and your nipples are so big," he said staring at my breasts as if I was a Playboy Playmate and he had never seen naked tits before.

Yet, I knew my tits had a special place in his heart. Something he'd never forget, something he'd always remember, and something he'd masturbate over for the rest of his life, Jason saw my naked tits. My son saw his mother's naked breasts. In the way that he'd be masturbating over seeing my naked tits, I'd be masturbating over him seeing my naked tits.

Ready again to accept my son's big, hard, and erect cock in my warm, wet cunt, as soon as he pulled in his driveway, I fingered my pussy. Wanting to make sure that I was wet enough for him, I rubbed my clit, fingerfucked my pussy, and fingered my nipples while imagining taking my son in my mouth and giving him a Halloween, birthday blowjob. In had been six, long, sexually frustrating years since I had sex with my son. As much as I couldn't wait to fuck him, I couldn't wait to fuck him.

'Happy Birthday, Jason,' I imagined saying while giving him a birthday blowjob. 'Cum, Jason, cum. Cum in Mama's mouth.'

Something that always sexually aroused me, while waiting for him to come inside, I continued fingering my nipples. I wanted to make them as big and as hard as his cock grows big and hard. As much as he loved my big, black tits, he loved my big, black nipples. While imagining my son sucking my big tits and fingering my erect nipples, I pulled, turned, and twisted them to make them as erect as they could be.

# # #

The only thing I knew about my Daddy was that he was a pimp and a drug dealer. As soon as he got out of jail, with him wanting to go back to his old way of life, he was gunned down by those who were in control now. The only thing I knew about my mother was that she was a stripper, a prostitute, a whore, and a junkie who died from an overdose when I was a baby. When she wasn't sucking and fucking customers, she was getting high.

Who knows? Maybe my life would have been different had my father not been arrested after he impregnated my mother. Maybe had he not gotten her hooked on drugs and turned her out on the street to do tricks, she wouldn't have taken an overdose of drugs after delivering her baby. With my Dad on parole and my mother clean and sober, had they turned away from their criminal ways, maybe I would have had a normal childhood.

Not having much of a childhood with no siblings to play with, and with me a mixed-race baby, I had few friends. As much as the black kids rejected me, the white kids rejected me too. The only one who offered me unconditional love, the woman I lived with, was my maternal grandmother. Yet, once I blossomed in a beauty, every man and some women, no mater if they were white or black and rich or poor, wanted me sexually.

'Men are such pigs,' I thought. 'Rather than talk to me, they'd rather strip me naked. Rather than get to know me, they'd rather fuck me. Rather than to ask me out on a date, they'd rather want to see me on my knees while sucking their erect pricks and staring up at them with by big, blue eyes.'

Later in life, my paternal grandmother gave me photos of my father. A good-looking, black man, as good-looking as Denzel Washington, he could have been a movie star. My maternal grandmother gave me photos of her daughter, a tall and strikingly beautiful white woman with natural, blonde hair, blue eyes, and big tits, instead of working as a stripper and a prostitute, she could have been a model. Yet, with drugs and sex the main ways to make a living back then on the dangerous streets of Detroit, with them born poor and uneducated, they both succumbed to their deadly environments.

Perhaps, the reason Tamara asked me to stay the for the Halloween holiday was to help her out with my son instead of with their children. If this was another typical, drunken birthday celebration, then, my son was a mess. Neglecting his family obligations, drinking to an excess, he was out of control. With Tamara taking the kids to sleep at her mother's house overnight, and leaving me alone to deal with my son, he obviously needed my motherly intervention. Only, I didn't know how I'd help him by wanting to have sex with him.

With me a survivor of sexual abuse, I wondered what role I played in damaging my son by giving him incestuous sex. I should have known better than to have forbidden sex with my son. Unable to help myself, in the way that I'm unable to help myself now from flashing him, those who have been sexually abused sometimes become sexual abusers themselves. The only time I felt safe was when in the arms of my son. Suffice to say, if I could have married him, I would have taken him as my husband.

With my father a pimp and my mother as whore, sex was all that I knew. My beautiful, black body was all that I had to offer and all that I had to give in exchange for money. Granted, Jason was a consenting adult at 18-years-old when I started sexually teasing him, incestuously flashing him, and allowing him to sleep with me in my bed but I was his mother and he was my son. Consenting adults and with him wanting to have sex with me as much as I wanted to have sex with him, we didn't have sexual intercourse until he was 21-years-old.

Only, I was lonely and he was there to comfort me. I was horny and, later when my sexually teasing grew to an extreme, and I finally had sex with him, he was there to sexually satisfy me. I needed his cock as much as he needed my hand, my mouth, and my cunt. Yet, now seeing the ramifications of where I went wrong, I wish I had broken the cycle of sexual abuse instead of continuing it with my son.

Nonetheless, whatever part I played, it amazed me how a 27-year-old man could have a problem with alcohol. Other than having sex with me, his mother, I wondered what else happened in his life to make him prefer the bottle to his wife and to his life. When did he start drinking? Why did he start drinking? Was he that unhappy that the only way he could get through his day was to be drunk? With him young, healthy, and strong, no doubt, he could handle poisoning himself with alcohol now but what happens to him later in life if he continues drinking to an excess?

Giving myself some credit, he didn't drink before he was married. With him in my bed, holding me, hugging me, spooning me, and sexually touching me, then with him returning to his room to masturbate, he was happy and sexually satisfied. Was Tamara the reason why Jason needed to drink? Was she as cold in bed as I was hot? Did she say no to sex when I always said yes? Was I the woman that he preferred and really wanted?

After having lived with and survived his drunken father, I wondered if my son was genetically predisposed and wired for drinking. Maybe with his father a drunk, unable to help himself, him being a drunk was a hereditary thing. Tragically, in the way that his father was a drunk, my son seemingly was a drunk too. Only, with me by his side and in his life, I was certain that I could help him. I was positive that if I gave my son love, attention, and sex, he'd turn his life around.

Perhaps, a closet drinker, my son had somehow hidden his drinking from me. Had I not read books on alcoholism, I wouldn't have known that alcoholism is a disease. His father had it and now my son has it too. He needed to go to Alcoholics Anonymous and follow the program. He needed to get help and avoid from the bad influences of his drinking buddies.

Obviously, sadly, and unfortunately, he'd rather celebrate Halloween and his birthday with his drunken friends than with his family. In the way that his grandmother, my mother, would rather get high than to face life, my son would rather go through life drunk. Hard to break the cycle, whether drugs, alcohol, or sex, I wondered if I was making things worse by wanting to give my son incestuous sex. I wondered if my sexually teasing him and incestuously enticing him by flashing him my naked tits and pussy would make him drink even more after I left.

# # #

No longer hurt, having put up with enough, Tamara was angry. Writing him off as a lost cause and with her obviously eying someone else, I could see in my daughter-in-law's eyes that she had already given up on my son. By the late-night telephone calls she received and the whispering she did when on the phone, she was obviously seeing someone else. They lived in a small house with thin walls and hollow doors, and I overheard a few of her sexual conversations. Undoubtedly, it was only a matter of time before they'd be divorced.

"Tell me," I heard my daughter-in-law talking to someone who wasn't her husband. "What do you think of my breasts?" She paused for his answer. "Really? Do you really like my big tits?" She paused again for his answer. "What about my ass? Do you like my big, black ass?" Once again, she paused to hear his response.

Then, she laughed over something he must have said to her over the phone.

"I love it when you finger my pussy while licking my pussy," she said swooning. "I really love your big, white cock and if you were here now, I'd blow you. After I fucked you, I'd suck you. I'd allow you to cum in my mouth and would swallow your cum," I heard my daughter-in-law saying to her lover over the phone.

As shocking as it was disturbing, yet, not hard to suspect, I figured she was having a sexual affair with a co-worker, a friend, an old boyfriend, or a neighbor. I didn't blame her. How could I blame her? I felt the same way when I was briefly married to my drunken ex-husband. Envious of my girlfriends, with them all moving away to buy their own homes, I wished I had married one of their husbands.

Yet, not blaming her, the best thing she could do to save herself and her children was to end their marriage now. With me feeling horny enough and sexually frustrated enough back then, more than once I was tempted to have a sexual affair but I never did. In hindsight, I wish I had left my husband and married someone else. It worked out when he left me and his son for a younger woman, the pig. Obviously, he wanted to be with a teenager. With me in my early twenties and him in his early thirties when he left, he skipped out on child support.

'Good riddance. Bye! Don't let the door hit you in the ass,' I thought when he was packing his bag. 'Asshole!'

# # #

It would serve my son right if his wife was having an extramarital affair. It would serve him right if she left him for another man. We all need love, support, and sexual comfort. If she's not receiving that at home, with her still so very young, so very beautiful, and so very sexy, I understood why she needed a better man in her life. I understood why she'd want a man who loved her enough to cater to her every need and, before she got too old, now was the time for her to do that.

Tamara was an attractive woman. Except for her baggage of dragging two, mixed-race kids along with her, she could have any man. She looked enough like me that she could have been my daughter. We talked the same, laughed the same, walked the same, and had similar sexy and shapely bodies. She reminded me of myself when I was her age.

A mixed-race, black woman, just like his mother, she had the same smile, the same dark hair, the same, big, blue eyes, and the same sexy and shapely figure as me. With her 5'7" tall, about 130 pounds, and with her blessed with shapely C cup breasts, she could have been my younger clone. It was as uncanny as it was disturbing how much we looked alike. Anyone would be hard pressed not to believe that my son didn't marry his sister. Anyone would be hard pressed not to believe that he was looking to bed his mother when he married his wife.

Obviously, my son was trying to find his mother when he found Tamara. No doubt, my son still wanted to have sex with me. With him still sexually wanting me made me sad but sexually aroused at the same time. It was obvious to me that my son loved me but not in the way that a son should love his mother. With me alone with him now, maybe in the way that I had sex with him before, by having sex with him again, he'd be able to go on with his life with Tamara.

Worth the try, I didn't know if it would work. Yet, not such a selfless act, I wanted to have sex with my son as much as he hopefully wanted to have sex with me. Maybe what he needed to continue on the straight and narrow was to have another fix of incestuous sex with his mother. Sounding good at the time, maybe all that it will take would be for me to suck the poison out of his cock, remove it from him, and swallow it.

For my son to start drinking, obviously, he was unhappy. Clearly, my son loved me and not Tamara. His drinking was from his misery, his sexual frustration, and his horniness. Filled with guilt and remorse, I wondered if I hadn't given my son sex back then when we were living together, if he would have gotten on with his life. Instead of living this odd, sexual fantasy of believing that he married the wrong woman, I wondered if he would have married someone else, someone who didn't look like me.

'He needed psychiatric help,' I thought. 'He needed to talk to a shrink about his sexual fascination with his mother. He needed to tell his doctor that he had been sexually abused by his needy mother when allowing him to sleep in her bed and ultimately allowing him to have sex with her.'

It pained me to admit but when I first met her, as much as Tamara was shocked by how much I looked like her, I was shocked by how much she looked like me. I couldn't help but wonder if my son still harbored incestuous, sexual thoughts for me. I knew he was sexually attracted to me ever since he turned 18-years-old but when he married Tamara, I thought that part of his life was over. I thought when we finally had sex that one-time and gave each other what we wanted and needed, we had moved on with our lives. I thought once he married and moved away that our mother and son sexual relationship was over.

When I had sex with my son, his father was long gone by then. When his father left and after my son matured into an adult, his sudden sexual fascination with me blossomed. Obviously, our incestuous, sexual relationship was just beginning. Sexually teasing him and incestuously enticing him, as if it was a game I needed to play, I wanted to see how far I could go in sexually teasing him and incestuously enticing him without crossing the line.

With me an exhibitionist and him a voyeur, not thinking anything wrong with me having some innocent, sexy fun with my son, I enjoyed sexually teasing him. It sexually aroused me to incestuously entice him. I enjoyed the attention he gave me when I flashed him my underwear clad body and even my naked ass, tits, and pussy. Then, when his sudden, sexual fascination went too far and he wanted to have sex with me, a one-time thing, I agreed to have sex with him.

I thought having sex with him that one-time would end his curiosity and his sexual attraction to me. I thought having sex with him that one-time would end my horniness and sexual frustration. I thought having sex with him that one-time would end our sexual attraction to one another. Instead of extinguishing our incestuous fire, us having sex inflamed our sexual lust and incestuous desire.

Clearly, instead of nipping it in the bud, my having incestuous with my son inflamed his incestuous desire for his mother. Moreover, my having sex with my son, inflamed my sexual desire to want to have sex with my son again. Able to control my sexually, incestuous urges by not living with him, as if they dissipated, disappeared, and were never there, I managed to keep my never ending, sexual attraction to my son hidden, until now.