tagIncest/TabooInspiring Mom

Inspiring Mom


The look on my mother's face was a mixture of sadness and frustration.

She had just gotten off the phone with her agent, and apparently her latest book sales weren't going so well. Judging by the look on her face, her latest book sales were terrible. All her life she wanted to be a novelist. When dad left, my mother tried writing stories for extra income. Then she got a publishing deal. When her book sales were good, she decided to quit her job as an accountant to concentrate on writing. I had never seen her so happy. Now, she was in a slump

"Are you okay?" I asked when I saw her walking down the hall.

"I'm fine," she sighed.

We walked passed each other and she held her head down. I felt sad for her. Things weren't much better at night when we had dinner. I could tell she was trying to put on a brave face. I didn't want to ask about any of her troubles because I knew she didn't want to talk about it. I figured that if she wanted to talk to me about something, then she would do it.


The next morning. It was Friday and I didn't have a college class that day. I woke up around 8 am and I saw my mother sitting by the dining table with a cup of coffee. Her phone was also on the table. I was expecting her to look depressed again, but instead, there was a curious look on her face. She was pondering something.

"Morning," I said.

She ended her reflective gaze after realizing I was there. "Morning. Want some coffee?"

"No thanks."

I reached for a spoon and bowl, and I prepared my cereal when I sat down by the table. My mother still seemed to be in a reflective state as I poured the milk over my cereal. I had never seen that expression on my mother's face before.

"I spoke with my agent a few minutes ago," she said, still pondering. "We had an interesting conversation."

"What about?" I asked, taking a bite of my cereal.

"She suggested that I try writing erotica. As in, erotic stories. Can you believe it?"

I nearly spit the cereal out of my mouth. It was the last thing I ever would have expected to hear. Judging by the look on her face, it appeared she was seriously considering it.

"What was your response?"

"I told her I'd consider it. It might be refreshing to write something different for a change. The market is changing and I have to change with it."

"So this means you're actually going to do it?"

She squinted her eyes playfully. "You're looking at me like I'm crazy? What's the matter? You don't think I could do it?"

"No, of course you can."

"Then are you embarrassed that I would write about sex? Or maybe it would be awkward for you?"

"No. It's not that."

"Then what is it?" she asked.

"It's just that...you're you. No offense, but you don't seem like the type."

"Then who is? Look at all of the erotic authors out there. They're not exactly Hollywood sex symbols. They're writers. Plain old average writers. My point is, anyone can do it."

"That makes sense," I acknowledged.

"Does this mean I have your permission to become an erotic author?"

"You're asking me for permission?"

"Well, not really," she replied. "I'm just trying to be understanding of your position. I don't want to embarrass you in any way."

"It wouldn't embarrass me at all. And it's not like anyone at college knows that my mother is a famous author."

"Is that a yes?" she asked with a faint sense of enthusiasm.

"You don't need my permission, mom. Write about whatever you want."

"Thank you. I'm not saying that I'm actually going to do it. It's just an option I'm considering. It might be nice to write about something different. I don't know, maybe my work was starting to become stale."

"I think you're a great writer."

She smiled at me, "Your opinion is all that matters."

"My opinion doesn't pay the bills though," I joked.

She gave me a playful motherly expression, as if to say that I was right, but that I ruined a tender moment between us. I could tell from the look in my mother's eyes that she had already made a decision. Maybe she didn't realize it yet. But I knew she made up her mind.

There was nothing my mother loved more than a challenge. And writing erotica seemed like a major challenge for her. Most of all, she loved writing stories that people would read.

She went back to drinking her coffee when I suddenly realized that she was right. If my mother wrote erotic stories, it would be kind of awkward between us. She usually showed me story drafts she had been working on to get my opinion, and I always gave her honest answers. I've read all of her books. I love to read. But could I actually read her erotic stories? How awkward would that be? It was an odd thought, knowing that I could potentially read my mother's dirty fantasies along with anyone else who purchased her book.


For the next few days I watched my mother wrestle with her decision. She was always an indecisive person. But I already knew that she would agree with her agent to write erotic stories. When mom finally told me that she was going to do it, I tried my best to act surprised.

My mother is a different person when she writes a novel. She becomes more focused. She spends less time on other hobbies. Everything in her world revolves around the story that she's working on (and me of course). She even does extensive research for each story she writes. Most of the time she becomes an expert of the subject matter she writes about. I was especially curious to see if she would do any research on her first erotic novel.

Days passed. Then weeks. My mother was in full work mode. Whenever I came home from a college class, she would usually be in her room typing on her computer. When we ate together, I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was still contemplating her story. She never showed me what she was working on. She never talked about it. And I never asked. It was way too awkward to even discuss, and we both understood that to some degree.

One afternoon I saw her gazing through the backyard window with a cup of tea in her hand. It's what she normally did if she needed a break or was struggling with certain plot points.

"This is a lot harder than I expected," she said, still facing the window.

"What do you mean?"

All I wanted was a glass of juice from the refrigerator, and at that moment, I knew I was stuck listening to my mother vent her frustrations.

She turned to look at me. "Writing sex scenes. Gosh they're hard."

I nearly dropped the glass onto the floor when she mentioned sex. It was going to be an awkward conversation, but deep down, it was kind of exciting in a weird way hearing her talk about sex.

"It can't be that hard," I said. "Just do what you normally do. It's all about imagination, right?"

"Yeah, but I like to put myself in the shoes of the character. That's when I do my best writing. It's more realistic and riveting that way. With erotica, gosh, I'm not that kind of person."

I shrugged. "Well I guess it's not for everyone to write."

"Are you saying I should quit?"

There was a sharpened motherly look in her eyes, and I instantly knew that I made a misstep. I immediately tried to reverse course.

"That's not what I'm saying," I replied smoothly. "I meant that some topics are harder to write than others."

"Oh. You're right about that."

"So are you going to continue the story?" I asked.

She nodded. "Definitely. I'm just stuck at the moment."

"Anything I could do to help?"

My mother suddenly gave me a strange look, as if a light bulb had went off in her head and she had a brilliant idea. It was only an off-hand comment. I always offered to help my mother, and she usually refused, which is why I always offered to help. But there was a look in her eyes which showed that she may have wanted me to do something important.

"Are you actually interested in helping?" she asked in a sincere tone. "I don't want to bother you. I know you're busy with college and in your social life."

The tone in her voice clearly showed that she wanted me to say yes.

"Mom, of course I'll help you. What kind of person do you think I am?"

She smiled, "Great. I may have to accept your offer. But not now. I'll think of something though."

My mother's smile said it all. She had already made up her mind that she was going to use my help. I just didn't know how I could help my mother write an erotic story. I hoped she wasn't going to ask me to help her write, because my writing wasn't nearly as good as hers. And I also hoped she wouldn't ask me for story advice, because I'm not very creative. I've never read erotica either. I mostly watch porn videos online.


Saturday morning. I didn't have anything planned for the day except relaxing and being lazy at home. I earned it from working so hard in college during the week. I woke up and headed down the stairs for breakfast. I smelled my mother cooking something. The dining table was neatly prepared and everything was almost ready to eat. She put hot food onto the plates, directly from the hot stove.

"Right on time," she said happily. "Everything is freshly prepared."

"What's the occasion?"

She gave me an offended look. "Can't I do anything nice for you without their being a condition?"

"Sorry. This looks great."

We both sat down and began to eat. I told her how good the food was. She made everything a guy could want for breakfast, including some extras. She was being more polite than usual. It was like the story wasn't even on her mind, which I knew it was. The day before she was struggling with her novel. Suddenly it seemed like she was in a carefree mood.

I leaned back against my chair after I finished. I was really full.

"About that favor you offered yesterday," she said calmly. "Do you think you can help me after breakfast?"

"I thought you were offended when I suggested that there was a condition?"

"Well, you were right. Are you still interested in giving me a hand?"

"Of course."

She smiled, "Perfect. I'll clean the dishes and I'll meet you in the living room in about 30 minutes. I need to get some stuff organized first. Okay?"


I helped my mother put everything away and she washed the dishes. Then I waited in the living room watching tv while my mother was doing something in her bedroom. The anticipation was growing. I couldn't figure out what she wanted, but it must have been something pretty important.

My mother finally came to the living room dressed in a casual tshirt and sweatpants. I turned off the tv and waited for whatever she had to say.

"Stand up," she said.

I did what she asked and stood.


"You know that I'm a very visual person right?" she stated. "I can't write about characters unless I can visualize the scenario. The reason I'm having such a hard time writing an erotic story is because I can't relate to the characters. So, that's where you come in."

I was taken aback. "I don't get it. What exactly do you want me to do?"

"Nothing really. Just stand here and let me touch you. Is that okay?"

I was even more taken aback. "I still don't get it."

"It's hard for me to explain, but in order for me to write detailed descriptions, I need the right feelings. When I write about things like heartache, loss, happiness, or love, I think back to my own experiences. The problem here is that I've never experienced what I'm writing about."

"But you've done it before," I said uncomfortably. "It's not like you've never, you know, been with a guy."

She nodded. "I know. Obviously I've had sex, but I've never experienced the particular feelings that I want to write about. That's where you come in."

My eyes suddenly widened. "Oh..."

She nearly laughed. "That came out totally wrong. Relax. I'm not going to have sex with you. All I need is for you to stand still. That's all."

"Oh. Okay."

"Think of a method actor who stays in character all the time in order to shoot great scenes. I'm kind of the same way with my writing. The more I inhabit the characters, the more I can write their feelings. Does that make sense at all?"

I nodded. "Now it's making sense. Do whatever you need. I don't mind."

My mother thought for a moment. She looked at my body and contemplated what to do. Or maybe she realized that the situation was really awkward between us.

"I'll stand behind you, and I'll hold you," she said. "It's something that my character would do. There's romance in the story, obviously. Are you okay with that?"


"Great. I just need to feel how my character would feel. Then I'll go to my room and write about it. Then we're done," she smiled.

I nodded. "Sounds good."

My mother walked behind me and I immediately felt her hands on my back. It felt nice. She has a soft touch. Her hands continued rubbing my back through my tshirt. Then she hugged me. It was a soft hug at first, the kind she had given me thousands of times before, but then she squeezed. It became the kind of hug that an intimate couple would share. It felt great.

Things started off fine. But then I felt my mother really begin to press her chest against my back. I felt her breasts rubbing softly against me. It felt stimulating. Her breasts felt soft and shapely. They were a nice size. I never thought that I would feel them so intimately, even if it was against my back. I enjoyed it. My biggest fear was that I would have a full erection and my mother would see it. How awkward would that be?

Before an erection came, my mother ended her touch. She gently released the hug and took a step back. I turned around to look at her.

"Thank you," she said politely. "Now I've got the inspiration I need."

"I'm glad I could help."

I glanced down swiftly at her chest. Her nipples had become hard and they were poking through her small tshirt. Did my mother become aroused? Or maybe she just has huge nipples which appeared because they were pressed tightly against my back? Whatever the reason, she looked really sexy.

She smiled and pinched my cheek before leaving to work on her story. She seemed enthusiastic, like she had some great thoughts to write about. I couldn't help but look at her ass when she walked up the stairs.


The week had passed and my mother never mentioned my 'assistance' for her story writing, but it seemed to have worked. She spent much of her time typing away on her computer. I wondered how much I had actually helped her. Her concept of method writing seemed a little strange to me, but then again, I'm not a writer, she is. Who am I to question her? Her novels were always well written and earned great reviews, even though they didn't always become hits.

I watched tv in the living room when my mother came down the stairs. She wore a thin sweater, sweat pants, and she was barefoot. It was her usual look whenever she worked on a new novel.

She sat next to me on the couch.

"Anything interesting?" she asked, with her eyes on the tv.

"Horror stuff. Nothing you'd be interested in."

An action scene occurred in the movie I was watching and my mother turned her head away. She never liked that sort of thing.

"You're right," she said is disgust. "Thankfully I didn't come here to watch tv with you. I just got off the phone with my agent."

Those words quickly grabbed my attention.

"Oh yeah? What did she say?"

"I emailed her all of the work I've done so far. She loves it. She forwarded the material to the publishing office. They love it too."

"Wow. That's great!"

She suddenly looked coy. "There's good news and bad news."

"What's the good news?" I asked.

"Well, the good news is that the publishers love my work so much, that they want more of it. They're even asking me to write short erotic stories for an upcoming compilation book that they're putting together."

"And the bad news?" I asked again.

"There's a few things you don't need to know about yet," she said hesitantly. "But for now, I'm running low on steam when it comes to sex. I've written some things these past few days, but everything is becoming redundant. It's like I'm stuck in a rut. It's a tough subject for me to write about."

It was obvious that she wanted to use me for inspiration again. Sure it felt weird the first time, but it also felt really good. A large part of me couldn't wait to do it again.

"What are you saying?" I asked, playing dumb.

She flashed a helpless and feminine look. "I was hoping you could do me another favor and be my assistant again. Are you up for it?"

"Only if you need me too."

She smiled, "You're my new good-luck charm. The last time I touched you, the words started flowing and I wrote some exciting stuff. I think we'll need to do it again."

"Whatever helps."

"Give me a few minutes. I'll be right back."

My mother went to her bedroom in an excited manner. She acted like she had just won a prize. For 20 minutes I waited. I had no clue what she was doing. But then again, her methods for writing had always been unorthodox. She always wrote her stories in her own particular way. That's what made her novels so unique.

When she finally came down the stairs, she was still barefoot in the same sweatpants, but this time, she wasn't wearing her sweater. She wore a thin tshirt, and I could tell she wasn't wearing a bra, which was very exciting for me. I could faintly see the shape of her breasts, but unfortunately her nipples weren't protruding like the last time.

She also held a large yellow notepad in her hand along with a pen. She came prepared this time.

"I'm ready now," she smiled, putting the notepad down on the couch.

I stood up and we were face-to-face.

"Same position?" I asked.

"If you don't mind, I want something a little more risque this time."

"No problem."

"Are you sure you don't mind? I feel bad for doing this to you."

"It's no problem," I reassured.

She smiled, "Great. I'll hug you from the front this time. We'll hold the position for a while until I start thinking of ways to describe it. Then I'll write down whatever comes to mind. Sound okay?"

"That sounds like a plan."

My mother took a step forward and she slowly put her hands around me. We were no strangers to hugs. We hugged all the time. But this was much more intimate. She did everything slow. I could tell that my mother was looking at things through the perspective of the character she was writing. It was the way she worked, and I was taking full advantage of it, feeling her soft breasts against my chest.

She held me tight and her hands caressed my back. Her breasts were firmly rubbing against my chest. I could tell she was doing it on purpose. She was using me as a way to get herself aroused. Her face pressed against me also. Her hands continued rubbing.

Suddenly she stopped and released the hug. Then she quickly went to her notepad and scribbled down a bunch of her thoughts as fast as she possibly could. It was almost like a race. I had never seen a person write so fast, and I'm sure it must have been really sloppy.

"Perfect," she said to herself with a sense of satisfaction.

"Did you get what you wanted?"

"Almost. I think we can do a little more today so I won't have to bother you again later."

"That makes sense."

My mother approached me again and gave me another big hug. I never got tired of feeling her breasts. This time, she rubbed her face on my chest. I felt her nose, cheeks, and lips pressing tightly against my tshirt.

I found myself becoming aroused. Oh god! I was getting hard. No!

Her body slowly moved, side to side. Her breasts were pressed tightly against me. Her face continued to rub against my chest. I got a full hard on. A raging one.

When my mother continued moving around, the top of her thigh brushed against my erection. She felt it! Then she pressed it again with her leg, just to be sure.

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