tagIncest/TabooMommy Deadest

Mommy Deadest

bysr71plt©

The first time, it had been all me, mooning over Joannie. But the second time. Ah, the second time she was there, I was getting noticed. And I knew what Joannie wanted. I could give it to her now. I'd come a long way in that department—from just mooning over her to being ready to do something.

Until I'd had gone to college that first year, I hadn't tuned into my mom—how sexy she was and how great it would be to be with her—inside her. To come downstairs late on a Saturday morning with a sloppy grin on my face just like my father did. And to enjoy the blush on my mom's face and how, like I'd seem then do, my mom and I'd talk to each other in low, honey-thick tones and would touch each other tenderly and stuff.

College had been a great awakener for me. I hadn't fucked a girl until I'd gone to college. My parents had sent me to an all-boys prep school to get my grades up and sharpen my football skills and visibility to college scouts. That had worked out and I'd gotten an athletic scholarship to James Madison University, which was chomping up the championships in its football league. My parents lived not far away, in Lexington, where my father ran a horse stable in what was serious horse country and my mom was a horse trainer.

Although I had spurned advances by other guys at prep school, it wasn't until I got to JMU that I realized that I was more-than-average good looking and built and that the combination of this and already being on the first string of the football team, made the coeds anxious to open their legs to me and do just about anything I wanted to do with them. What shamed me a bit was that, at the beginning, I hadn't known much of what I could do with them—it took them to show me.

I was a pretty fast learner, though. And I'd toughened up and gained a good bit of what people said were especially good looks during my first year at college. I'd been pretty gangly and dopey and pimply before that. It was only when I came home from the first year to work the summer in my dad's stables that I realized that I was getting as good looking as my dad was.

The women had always gone gaga over my dad—which Mom didn't like all that much. She was older than my dad and he had always looked younger—to the point where some of my parent's friends made remarks about robbing the cradle. All in jest, of course. At least my parents always laughed when the joke rolled out.

That first summer home from college had been a pivotal one for me. Well, for the whole family. And life around our house started unraveling right after I had come home. I'd arrived back on a Thursday, and my father had come home all flushed and big smiles on Friday evening, with a bottle of Jack Daniels under his arm and the look about him that suggested he'd already downed one on his own.

It started with a god awful screech of tires and brakes out in front of our house, which was on a corner of the stable acreage, on a narrow, graveled road, where the thick foliage of tree branches met over the road and there was a blind curve on the approach to our driveway. Dad loved it here—all except for that blind driveway, he always said.

I think my mom just barely tolerated it—the living outside of town on a gravel track.

"What was that I heard out front?" Mom said as Dad walked into the kitchen.

"Just about wiped out a Jag coming out of our driveway. Damn fool driver. Drives just like you do."

"That was Tony," Mom had said. Mom and Tony, a young, suddenly rich-on-little-effort movie star who had bought a show farm a couple of miles away and had engaged my mom along with several other horse and farm specialists to make him an instant country gentleman, had been out in the screened pavilion all afternoon, going over plans for his farm operations.

"And I'm not the one who almost had an accident," she said.

"Yes, well, you're the one whose philosophy of countering the blind spot at the driveway is to gun the engine as you enter the road."

"Let's not fight," Joannie—my mom—then said. "You've come home looking flush with victory. Did the deal go through on the sale of Dancing Belle?

"Did it ever," my dad had said—Dancing Belle was a racing horse he had wanted to sell. "And I sure don't feel like fighting either," he continued.

The way he said it made me look up at his face and then over to my mom's. My year at college had told me what that look meant, and sure enough, after they'd both had a couple of drinks, they were going up the stairs to the bedroom level, Mom in front and giggling and Dad behind and giving her pats on the butt.

My mom made little yip yip sounds, punctuated with periodic moans, when she was having good sex. I hadn't realized that when I was younger. It was only when I was fucking girls in college and they were making similar noises—all a little different from the others, of course, so that sometimes I could only remember which girl I was fucking in the dark by her distinctive sex sound—that I had realized what was happening when I heard those noises from behind the closed bedroom door when I was growing up.

This time I didn't find something else to do when they went upstairs. Now that I remembered it, when this scenario occurred when I was in high school, I'd find someplace else to go to catch dinner, because I knew Mom wouldn't be down to do it anytime soon. I just didn't before give it all that much thought why not. They'd been drinking and they took the bottle with them upstairs, so I guess I'd always sort of thought they were just drinking and continuing to talk up there.

But in light of the sounds of sex I'd gotten out of girls in college, I guess I now knew what my parents were doing those days of the missed dinners.

This time I didn't go out to saddle up with a friend and hit the popular drive-ins where my friends gathered. All of my friends had scattered after high school graduation.

Instead, I went upstairs to my room. That's when I started to hear the sounds that I now fully understood the meaning of. I crept back down the hallway, to find that my parents' bedroom door was open.

My dad was naked and laying on his back on the bed, and my mother was crouched over his pelvis and swaying back and forth. She usually put her long, blonde hair up in a bun, but now it was flowing freely. She was voluptuous, and the first image that came into my mind was of Lady Godiva, riding her horse, naked, through town—and proudly showing off her still-firm, rounded breasts and her enticing body curves. And the horse she was riding was my father.

I looked at him briefly, and that's probably what made something snap in my brain—some deep, forbidden desire that should not have been there, but that I couldn't deny.

There, for just that month, for that very short period of time, my father and I could be twins. He started to age quickly from the point, pulled down by worry over the sinking finances at the stables. But on that Friday, in the shadows of twilight filtering into the bedroom through the windows, it wasn't my dad under my mother, grabbing her waist with his hands and helping her to rise and fall on his cock. It was me.

I wasn't shocked. I immediately was aroused, and I lowered my hand to my crotch. And then it was the three of us having sex, sharing each other. Increasingly as I watched, I had the sensation of floating across the bedroom, disrobing as I went. And arriving at the bed and, as a ghost, descending into my father's form, the two of us as one, and, slowly, my dad floating away and it just me and my mom. Joannie. I didn't think of her as my mom at that moment—and every subsequent moment when I fantasized this and similar scenes. She was Joannie. And I was her lover, Gill. I instinctively knew that she wanted them young and virile. And boy did I have a hard cock for her.

* * * *

That was the high point of my summer—of my life really. The realization that I wanted to fuck my mother. And, for a few fast-moving weeks after that, I combined peeking at my parents doing it and playing out my own fantasies of supplanting my father into a time when I could have said I was walking on the clouds.

But all started to unravel from there fast.

* * * *

"He's half your age, dammit."

"I'm older than you too—although, I must say, Charles, that you have aged this last month. Ever since the deal on Dancing Belle fell through, you've been hell on wheels and obsessing over the stables."

"We're barely still in business. I've had to work my tail off to keep us afloat. But what does that have to do with you asking for a divorce and running off with Tony, that friggin' movie star?"

"Everything. He makes me laugh; you haven't even tried to do that for some time. He makes me feel young."

"Feeling young is everything to you, isn't it? Having a young stud to tell you you're young and beautiful, and staying hard as long as you want to drive."

"I wouldn't have thought you'd want to bring the question of staying power up."

I didn't stay around for any more of the conversation. I was crushed. It wasn't that they were breaking up—but that in rejecting my father for that young movie star, my mother was rejecting me too. For a few, brief weeks, my father and I had merged, had been the same man—both in looks and in possessing my mother. That wasn't real reality, of course, but it was the reality that I had chosen to spin.

I went back to JMU two weeks earlier than I had to. I told my dad I had to go back for football practice—and I did. But not as early as I told him I did.

I arranged to move in with a townie, Cynthia, who was just out of college, but a couple of years older than I was, and who was teaching at an elementary school in Harrisonburg. We fucked like rabbits, me trying to supplant the image of my mother from my brain. But Cynthia didn't have the yip yip sound punctuated with moans that my mother had in sex.

When they reopened the dorms for the year, I moved back on campus at JMU.

By Thanksgiving I had a new step-mom. My mother—Joannie—had gone to Vegas and gotten a quickie divorce, not wanting to give her Tony any time to think about the wisdom of her moving in with him.

My step-mom's name was Deborah. She was a rich blonde—looking remarkably like my mother—who had been stabling her horses with my father and had been flirting with him ever since I remembered. And as I got older, she flirted with me too. She had been the one who had remarked about how identical my father and I were in that period of my nineteen-year-old summer when, in my imagination, we were one man, both fucking my mother.

Christmas Eve, while my father was down on the stables bringing in a new foal who was arriving entirely too early for plans, I fucked my step-mother, Deborah, on the clichéd, but quite effective, white bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire in the living room of her house on a ridge top overlooking Lexington—where my dad had moved when Deborah had bought him after the divorce by agreeing to put the stables back into the black.

Deborah was older than my mother and she was more angular—looking a bit like the horses she loved—and had a few more lines and wrinkles, but in the firelight she was enough like my mother as we lay stretched, both naked, along each other's bodies, hands exploring, that her cunt fit my hard cock as well as any woman's did, that I could just shut my eyes and think "Joannie, Joannie, Joannie" to myself—and pretend that it was my real mom shuddering under me as I came.

Deborah made short groans as I stroked inside her, and she was a talker, wanting to make clear that she only fucked me—had seduced me, in reality—because I was so much like my father—a younger, more virile version of the man she had wanted for years. She'd been forthright enough to say that now that she'd gotten my father, she regretted that he wasn't the same man he'd been when she'd started campaigning for him—that the man she remembered and originally wanted now was me.

She didn't make the yip yip sounds punctuated by moans that my mother did during sex, though, so I only let Deborah fuck me a few more times. Well, maybe a dozen. But the point was that it was just sex; it wasn't fully satisfying. It wasn't my mother.

* * * *

By the time my sophomore year had come to a close, my world had flip-flopped again. Deborah was gone. By that I mean, Dad was back home at the stables and Deborah was up at her mountaintop home, with a Las Vegas divorce of her own. And she was living with Tony, the actor. That meant my mother wasn't with Tony anymore. She'd come home—back to the house by the stables on the narrow graveled road where the branches of the trees met above.

It was only days after I returned from school—to help my dad out in the stables again—that I realized why Mom had come home. She'd come home for me.

The stables were in financial trouble again, and my dad had aged maybe ten years—zipping right by Joannie in terms of age appearance.

The two weren't getting along too well. Both were snappish, and after I came home, they started talking to each other through me. But Mom had come home. That was what was important to me.

She sought me out more now than she ever had when I was younger. And she frequently complimented me on my looks and the shape I was in, saying that I was just like my father when he was younger.

And she gave me those looks. And when she was near me, she came close and touched me. Like she'd never done before.

It was a Friday, a Friday evening, near twilight, when she came to me and touched me on the arm. Dad was down at the stables again, but might return at any moment. I was sitting there, letting her play her fingers up and down my forearm, ruffling my hair there and sending chills up my spine, when she asked me if I wanted to go to Andersons Stables with her to check on the horses. The Andersons were in Florida, and my mother, who trained horses for them, was watching over their stables.

"I have keys to their house," she said, as she raised her hand and dangled them for me to see. And the look she gave me told me exactly what she meant by that.

I took her hand in mine and looked into her eyes. There was no question what she wanted. There was no question what I wanted. No words were needed.

We took her car, with her driving. As we came to the end of the driveway, Joannie, as always, as young at heart as I was, gunned the engine to take the swing onto the graveled lane. We both laughed.

I sensed that I needed to take charge from the beginning—that this was where my dad had gone wrong with Joannie. He'd let her take charge, drive, and that this was gotten them into trouble, into a rut. She needed to be surprised, to be controlled, driven by a virile young cock. She made no bones about wanting her men young and virile.

When we drove up to the Andersons' house, therefore, when Joannie got out and headed toward the house, I took hold of her wrist, holding her in a firm grip so that she winced and looked at me in surprise. And then I guided her to the stables.

We found an unused stall, where fresh, sweet hay had been laid. I grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to me and crushed her lips with mine. She melted to me quickly and ran a hand down my chest to my crotch. I felt her gasp within the confines of our kiss when her fingers found me and traced my half-hard through the material of my trousers. She started unbuckling my belt and unzipping my trousers with both of her hands.

But this was her in control again. So, I brushed her hands away. And I forced her to her knees and pulled my cock out with my own hand and presented it to her lips. She whimpered and moaned, but she slid her lips down my shaft, pulling me inside her mouth, and gave me expert suck. I'd never seen her do this for my dad, and while she sucked, I wondered if this was something she'd done for young movie star Tony.

It didn't matter. She obviously hadn't thought of doing it for me. So, I was keeping her off balance.

I released the bun her hair was in and let her tresses fall to below her shoulders. I dipped my face down and luxuriated in the smell of whatever fragrance she used in her hair shampoo. I vaguely connected it with smell of the schoolteacher, Cynthia, back in Harrisonburg. But I immediately banished that from my thoughts. This was Joannie, who I had wanted for so long. My mother. I would not think of any other woman at this moment.

While I was hunched over her, I moved my hands under her chin at my crotch and unbuttoned her blouse as far down as I could reach. I cupped her breasts in my hands and squeezed her nipples. She gasped and I felt her tongue flicking at my piss slit and then trying to invade. I sensed combat. She was fighting me for control.

I pushed her away from my dick and she fell back on her tailbone against the wall of the stall, stunned, if only temporarily. A horse whinnied and moved restlessly in the neighboring stall. Joannie looked at me in surprise.

I had her off balance. I went down on my knees and grasped the waistband of her skirt and literally ripped it—and then her panties—off her legs. I dove for her muff with my face, and she let out a little cry and buried her hands in the hair on my head and slung her legs over my shoulders as I started to give her the eating out of her life.

She was loving it. I was listening for the sounds of her loving it. But she was making other sounds, louder, more animalistic. I didn't think that either Dad or Tony had ever done this to her, for her before. Was I pushing her beyond where she'd been before? That wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to her the yip yips, the off-beat moans.

She cried out my name, repeatedly, begging me for the fuck. I came up for air and hunched over her and looked down into her face, looking for the pain and surprise and passion that I knew I'd see there, as I clutched at her hips, rolled them up, and slammed my cock deep inside her.

I thrust again and again, listening for the sounds I expected, that I wanted to hear.


* * * *

"You say that were both alive when you put them in the bus?"

"Yeah, but they're dead now," the medic answered. "The way she slammed that car into the UPS truck when she shot out of the driveway, I'm surprised they made it as far as the ambulance."

"Mother and son, do ya think?"

"Yeah, probably, but the funniest thing. At the last she was making little yip yip sounds punctuated by moans and the young guy had one of the hardest hard ons that I've ever seen—and damned if they weren't both smiling."

"And you say they died in the same instant?"

"Yeah, went off together, just like that. And those big smiles on their faces."

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