It Started with a Joke

I was a normal college kid. I hung out with my buds when I could, either at my house or at one of theirs. We were all over 21 and so could drink, so we'd always have a couple of beers and then the conversation usually centered on sex. Until we went to college, when some of the guys (including me) got lucky, none of us really knew what we were talking about. That didn't stop us, of course, and we'd always end up sitting there with raging hard-ons, giggling like schoolgirls. The beauty of the internet was that, technically, we knew all the things we should do with a woman, from sucking her tits to eating her pussy, to mounting her from behind. Technically, we knew. Practically? Not so much. Even when we did get lucky, the event was almost always in the back seat of a car and involved quick and furtive touches until the inevitable - a premature ejaculation - ended the fun.

We knew, though, that mature women would be more fun than girls our own age. More experienced. Lusher bodies. Just hotter overall. Corey claimed to have had an affair with one of is professors, but we didn't believe him. We knew all about MILFs and, of course, the closest MILFs to hand were our own mothers. We'd talk about them for hours on end, but we had kind of an unwritten rule that limited the MILF subjects of our lust to the mothers of guys who were not there at the time. No one wants to hear the other guys talk about boning his own Mom, but if you weren't there, your Mom was open game. I never asked, but I wondered if the guys talked about my Mom when I wasn't there.

"God, wouldn't you love to get those tits in your mouth! Did you see her yesterday? Hot!"

"I'll bet she sucks a dick. Do you think she sucks a dick?"

Things like that. I wondered if they talked about Mom that way, because she was pretty strict. Let's admit it. She was, and still is, a control freak. She's not malicious about it; she just has to be in charge. Besides, my Mom, Debbie, didn't have the big tits of Joe's Mom, Melissa. She didn't have the tight, petite package of Corey's Mom, Tracy. She didn't have the flaming red hair of Dylan's Mom, Suzy. Mom was taller than average, well-built but maybe a few extra pounds, and had let her hair gray naturally. She was a typical Mom.

So, I thought the guys probably gave Mom a pass on the MILF list. Oh, I was sure they talked about her some, but not with the serious emphasis they gave the others. To me, she was beautiful, but to them? Maybe not so much.

I'll admit, the prime subject of our MILF discussions was Melissa, Joe's Mom, but only when Joe wasn't there. Rules, you know. That all changed on one fateful day in the summer of our college sophomore year, when we were playing X-Box in my room. Joe, usually the best of the gamers among us, seemed off his game that day and, after he had missed about the third easy shot against an alien invader, I couldn't take it any more.

"Joe! What the hell, Dude? You missed another one? What's going on? Use the shotgun."

He sat there for a moment, a stunned look on his face. Then he looked up and said, in a soft voice, "You won't believe what I saw this morning."

"What? Your dick? That little thing finally make an appearance?" I laughed as I said it because every one of us knew the respectable size of Joe's package.

Joe laughed, too. "Guys," he said, "I saw Mom's tits this morning."

That got our attention. Not only had the favorite subject of Melissa's tits been broached, but by her own son. The unwritten rule was not to talk about a guy's Mother if he was there, but we had never considered what to do if one of us brought up his own Mom.

I looked around at the group and they were all like me, mouths hanging open. Corey broke the ice. "You saw your Mom's tits? Are you kidding? What were they like? Nice?"

Joe shook his head. "They were beyond nice. I've never seen such nice tits. No one at my college has tits like that."

"You've probably never seen any tits," I said. "But spill the details. How did you do it?" Of course I wanted to hear about Melissa's tits, just like all the other guys, but I also wanted to know if there was something I could do to see Mom's tits. I would bet that everyone of us was thinking the same thing about his own Mom.

"I was walking by their bedroom on my way here, and the door was about halfway open. I think she must have forgotten I was home for the weekend. I looked in, thinking I'd tell her goodbye, and she was standing in front of her mirror getting dressed. She had her jeans on and was starting to put her bra and sweater on, I guess. Anyway, I stood there, not knowing what to do or say, looking at her reflection. She saw me in the mirror and, I'll swear, I think she wanted to give me a good look before she put her hands over them. She smiled at me and said something. I think it must have been, 'You going to Tom's?,' but I'm not sure. That was it. But damn. Those puppies are fine."

"What did you do then?"

"What do you think I did? I beat feet out of there. I can't get it out of my brain, though. Man, I wanted to get my hands on those things."

There. That was it. The cat was out of the bag. Joe was admitting that he wanted to fuck his own Mom. Talk about an icebreaker.

"Oh, God," Corey whispered. "I'd love to see my Mom's tits. I'd cream in my pants."

"Me, too," Dylan agreed. "I want to see that red-haired bush of Mom's so bad that I can taste it."

They all turned to me. Never one to have much of a filter, I said, "I would give anything to fuck Mom. The Ice Queen. I wonder what she's like once she gets going."

That was the day the earth shifted and The Rule went out the window. From that day, not only would we talk about each other's Mothers without exception, but we talked about our own Mothers. Who better to know each of them but her own son? The other result was that it made one-on-one conversations about our Moms even more graphic, especially with Joe. He soon knew that I had a real thing for Melissa. I learned that Joe had it bad for Mom, but that he was just as hot to fuck Melissa as I was to fuck my own Mom.

I learned a lot about Melissa. I knew that Joe loved to rub her ass when he hugged her, and that she let him. He said he started it as a joke one weekend when he came home from college, and hadn't stopped. You talk about something that will get your blood boiling, just imagine what it was like to hear that. Unfortunately, I had nothing of the like to share. I couldn't imagine trying that with Mom. She'd knock my head off and tell Dad, and that would be it.

I could hear it now. "Do you know what your son did today? He grabbed my ass!"

"Tom! Get in here! No more tuition for you."

Yep. Some things are desirable, but unattainable, and that was Mom.

Melissa? Maybe not so unattainable for Joe. He described to me how his hands on her ass were now a regular thing when no one was around. He said she seemed to like it, and would rub her breasts on his chest when she hugged him. No wonder he came home from school almost every weekend. Things seemed to be moving right along for Joe, until the subject of his trying to fuck Melissa seemed to tail off. It wasn't that we stopped talking about her and Mom, it was just that he seemed less communicative about it. I wondered what that meant, and finally concluded that she had probably jerked him up short and his fun had come to an end.

I think we all had a revelation that weekend. There were four of us, and each of us wanted to fuck his own Mom. Statistically, while the sample may have been small, it was pretty telling. I can't speak for the others, but I realized that probably every guy wants to fuck his Mother. I was studying psychology, and I noted something missing in the research literature. No academic who I could find addressed adult sons wanting their Mothers sexually, and why not? Our little sample of four guys was pretty conclusive, so why did no one talk about it?

Did that mean it rarely or never happened, or that it happened pretty frequently and no one talked about it? I think that summer was a key period for me because it cemented my interest in research psychology and determined my eventual graduate degree interest. It also focused my desire for Mom.

I always knew she was a good-looking woman to me but, as I said, I always thought she was unattainable to anyone. I had always had an interest in her, but now my interest became much more focused. I watched her like a hawk and when I wasn't watching her, I thought about her. I noticed that she always took great pains to look good. She always had. She bought stylish clothes and never went out without her makeup. That was kind of a family joke. Sandy, my sister, could be ready in about five minutes if she wanted to. Mom would take an hour to shower, get dressed, and put her makeup on.

I asked her about it once. "Mom, what the hell? We're just going to the hardware store. Why do you have to look so good just to go to the hardware?"

She laughed, and didn't give a direct answer. "Oh, it's just the way I am. I've always been like this. You know that. I just like to look good."

I often flirted with her and I know, as I look back, that my flirting was clumsy. I told her, "Well, it works. You always look great. My friends think you're a MILF." As soon as I said it, I thought I had fucked up. She probably didn't know what that meant, and what would I do if she asked me to explain it?

She didn't, though. She just blushed. "Really? Oh, I don't think so." And that was the end of the conversation. But, she blushed. She clearly knew what it meant.

That summer ended, and back to college I went. I discovered the joys of sororities and how easy it was to fuck college girls. Freud would have said, I guess, that my Oedipal phase had passed, but it hadn't. I was getting plenty of pussy, but every time I went home my desire for Mom was rekindled. I couldn't bring myself to do anything about it, of course. Desirable, but not attainable.

To be honest, I wasn't sure Mom even had much of a sex drive. The other guys would talk about hearing their parents going at it, but I had never heard Mom and Dad having sex, as far as I knew. In one of my classes we had explored the role of marriage in western society, and I learned that polling showed that 13% of women and 20% of men admitted they had an affair while married. At the time I thought that number was probably not truly representative. Who would admit to a pollster that he or she had an affair? So, I figured the number might be realistically at least twice the poll results, which could mean that one out of four women fucked around. But, back to Mom, I assumed she would be in the 75% who didn't.

It was the end of my junior year and I was spending the summer at home. Dad, as he did a lot, was on an extended business trip, so that left Sandy, Mom, and me to ourselves at home. One evening after dinner, Sandy had gone out and Mom and I were sitting in the backyard by the pool. Mom was to my right, sitting in a patio chair, with her feet on the chair and her knees up. She had on a pair of gray shorts and a blue low-cut tank top, and she was looking good. I let my gaze travel across her long legs.

"Damn, Mom. Where'd you get that bruise?" She had a series of bruises on the outside of her left thigh.

She looked down and covered it with her hand. "Oh, that? I bruise easily, you know. Who knows what I might have bumped into."

I didn't say anything, but after she went in to get a drink and resumed the same position, I furtively checked the bruises more closely. Damned if it didn't look like a series of fingerprint bruises, with the thumbprint toward the top of her thigh. I had enough experience by this time that I had left similar bruises on many young lasses. It generally happened when they were on top fucking away and I was grasping their thighs while I hunched up to meet them. The bruises were on Mom's left thigh, which would match what a right-handed man would leave. His right hand would be the stronger hand.

Mind, blown.

Every time I got a chance to look, the more that series of bruises was just what I thought they were - the fingerprint bruises of a lusty fuck session. My Mom. Dad's gone, and Mom has fuck bruises on her leg. My dick was as hard as I could remember it had ever been.

"You look great, Mom. Let me get a photo for Dad, to show him what he's missing." I whipped my camera out and snapped a shot.

"Oh, no. I wasn't ready," she said. "Take another one," and she slid her left hand down to cover the bruises. "Now. I'm ready," and she smiled her angelic photo smile.

I took another one and sent it right off to Dad, but the first one was my prize. That night I downloaded it to my computer and blew it up so I could study the bruises more closely. Yep. I was right. Those were fingermarks. I researched bruising, and learned that the initial bruise shows up as reddening within two days of the injury and the real color show comes in at about five to ten days. So, I had a window. Where was Mom and what was she doing about five to ten days before?

I racked my brain. During the summer I was pretty footloose and didn't expect anyone to keep tabs on me, nor did I keep tabs on Mom's and Sandy's movements. But I did remember that one morning the previous week, Mom had gone out for almost the whole day, "at school." Mom was a professor at the local community college and she had explained that even though classes were out for a couple of weeks between terms, she still had administrative work to catch up on.

After that, I pulled up my notes and dug deeper into the statistics of infidelity. The bottom line was that women got away with it much more than men. Women, if they comported themselves appropriately, were generally above suspicion, and women just seemed to be more careful. I reviewed the statistics. Then it hit me. If 20 to 25% of men fuck around, how can it be that only 13% of women do it? Seemed to me that married women would prefer married men. Fewer complications. The whole research data was wrong. I would bet that the real numbers were much greater than reported. The statistics didn't matter, though. Mom had fuck bruises on her leg.

I sat there, dumbfounded. My Mom. Fucking. Not just fucking, but fucking around. I knew she loved my Dad, so I thought it was less likely that it was a love affair, and more likely that she had enjoyed a lusty fuck session.

Back to the notes. I remembered that our professor had talked about how sex evolved in a marriage, and how that often led to problems. A couple married, in part, because they loved the hot sex sessions while they were dating. Inevitably, and at the time I thought, sadly, after marriage the husband puts his wife on a pedestal and treats her more gently during lovemaking. They get in a rut. He doesn't want her to think he's freaky. He doesn't want to offend her or to make her mad. He loves her. Fucking becomes "lovemaking," while many times the wife longed for the lusty and athletic fucking of earlier times.

Was that where Mom was? She had gotten the holy shit fucked out of her, and it wasn't by Dad. My mind wandered. I remembered back to every woman I had fucked who liked to be on top. I remembered grabbing and squeezing their thighs as they fucked me. With every memory, I pictured Mom on top of me, my hands on those long legs while I sucked her tits.

That was my fantasy, but turning fantasy into reality was something I couldn't fathom. Sometimes, it's just a bridge too far. Even if I accepted that Mom had enjoyed a fuck session with someone (Who in the hell could it be?), she'd never cross the line to having it with me. Mom was too proper. The Ice Queen.

So for most of the summer, that's where I left it. I alternated between thinking I was completely off my rocker for thinking that she had done something like that, and then I'd return to the conclusion that the photo I had taken was inescapable proof. Eventually the bruises faded, no more appeared, and as best I could, I put it out of my mind.

Until that fateful Saturday. Sandy had a date and, based on her nervousness before he showed up, she thought it a pretty important one. She was still getting ready when he arrived and Mom sent me out to bring him in. Mom, he, and I sat in the kitchen chatting, until Sandy showed up. Damn, she looked fine. I couldn't help but think back to those statistics on incest, and that sibling incest led the numbers. Sandy and her date walked to the back door and Mom and I accompanied them.

As they walked out, Mom and I were standing side by side and I put my right arm around her waist as I called out, "Now you kids stay out of trouble. Don't make me have to lecture you when you bring her home, young man."

That got a laugh out of everyone and Sandy turned around to stick her tongue out at me. Laughing myself, I slid my hand down to Mom's ass and gave it a little squeeze. It was a joke. I didn't plan it. I swear, I didn't even mean anything. It was a joke, part of the acting-like-the-old-man routine.

Mom stiffened, put her right hand back on mine, gave my hand a squeeze, and moved it back to her waist. She didn't say anything, but as I closed the door I thought, "Oh, boy. Now I'm going to get it." But I didn't. She didn't say a word about it. She acted as if nothing had happened and went into the kitchen.

"Find us a movie, Tom, if you're going to stay home tonight. I'll get snacks." That was all she said.

In a better story, maybe a fictional story, I would recount how we ended up making out and then fucking on the couch that night. That didn't happen. Mom seemed the same, but I was a little awkward. I feared I had overstepped a boundary and was on probation, so I was perfectly proper with her. After the movie, she hugged me close and went up to bed, leaving me to think about what had happened.

That ass. Mom was in her fifties by then, but damn, she was solid. Even the young college women I dated often had loose, sloppy asses, but Mom's was solid. That was a fine ass. I couldn't get my mind off it. My hand had been on Mom's ass and even if it was a joke, my hand had been on Mom's ass. And, she had not said a word about it.

If I had watched her closely before, I watched her like a hawk for the next week. I noticed something. When Sandy was there, Mom was proper and cool. When Sandy was out at night and it was just us, Mom would show up in the den wearing a tank top or tee shirt, usually without a bra, and yoga pants or shorts. Once she came down to tell me something before we went to bed and she wore just a tee shirt and panties. Her nipples were as hard as little pebbles in the tee shirt. She made a point of walking in front of me and turning away, so I got a good shot of her ass in the panties, and then she turned around toward me. Whether she intended it or not, I got a good view of her ass, her beautiful tits, and the mound of her pussy in her panties.

I wore my dick out that night. What was going on? Was Mom giving me signals? Could that be?

Again, my mind went into overdrive. I alternated between thinking she was totally innocent in it and comfortable that her son would never do anything to offend her, and thinking that she was trying to encourage me to make a move.

And there's the quandary of every son who wants to fuck his Mother. You might think you could do it. You might think she's sending signals she might like you to try. But you just can't get the guts to go for it. I had taken a business course on investing the previous semester and they taught us about risk assessment. One of the first steps was to identify the acceptable level of risk you could tolerate. In this case, the level of acceptable risk was so low as to be almost non-existent. I had gotten away with squeezing her ass, but it was done as a joke and she almost certainly saw it that way. But get really serious with it and make a real move, and I could find everything blowing up in my face. I remembered my thoughts when the guys had fantasized about their Mothers and what would happen if I did the same thing Joe had gotten away with.