Mom's Errant Panties

My cock pressed into my stomach, and I felt a familiar flush of heat deep in the base of my dick where it disappeared inside my body. The sensation tried to become an ejaculation, but I reached forward and cranked the temperature nob all the way to cold and my skin quickly became stinging pins and needles under the shockingly extreme adjustment.

"What the actual fuck," I mumbled indignantly as my teeth began to chatter.

I stared daggers at my cock, forbidding it from going off.

After a few seconds, I saw the tip began to soften under the freezing punishment I was subjecting it to. A wrinkle that had been ironed flat a moment before, began to appear near the ridge of my helmet.

The imminent launch sensation ebbed in my pelvis, and I checked my surroundings, half expecting to find someone standing in judgment on the other side of the glass shower door with their arms folded and a look of disgust on their face.

I reached forward and twisted the shower nob into the off position, then pushed myself up and retrieved the towel from where I'd hung it on the rack.

Teeth chattering, I brought the towel to my face first, pressing it tightly against my lips to muffle a howl of frustration.

When I exited the bathroom, I walked hunched over like an old man, not expecting to see anyone but attempting to hide my still mostly hard dick, just in case.

I was still far from flaccid when I put on a fresh pair of boxers and readied myself for bed, but my dick immediately tried to make a break for it through the flap, pushing against the single button that suddenly seemed inadequate for the job it was being asked to do.

I was worried I wouldn't be able to fall asleep for the unscratched itch I was attempting to ignore, but I eventually did, albeit to the emotional white noise of self-loathing.

Once my frontal lobe was officially retired for the day and I'd sunk into a deep sleep, my lower brain functions were then allowed unsupervised access to the days catalog of short-term memories, and the footage of my mother's naked ass and genitals was presented to my hippocampus for some colorful, dreamy editing.

There was definitely a peripheral, almost ethereal, recognition of the naughtiness in the script my sleeping brain drafted for that night's dream sequence, but with the rational, far more orthodox regions of my mind offline for maintenance, that recognition became gasoline thrown on an already raging inferno of solacious lust.

I don't recall actually having intercourse with my mother in the dream, but I distinctly remember her straddling my face as I hooked my arms around her hips and pulled her to me.

The vividness of kissing and tasting every nook of her undercarriage was what stood out the most, playing my tongue over, under and in, every perfect curve and crevasse while she moved to show me where she wanted to be kissed next.

Mrs. Snow was there too, and she did fuck me in the dream, riding my raging hardon cowgirl-style like a rodeo princess, facing Mom and alternating between kissing her and sucking on her breasts.

As Mrs. Snow sucked and fucked, she kept repeating the same phrase, but I mostly only heard the vowels due to the tits and second tongue frequently occupying her mouth.

She was trying to say, "Cum in me, Greg. Please cum in me!"

Mom was very vocal as well and at some point, probably right before I released an insane quantity of bed-soaking ejaculate, I remember her urging me to shoot my load extra hard so as to ensure we gave Mrs. Snow the baby we owed her.

Don't ask me why we owed her a baby. No context for the attempted impregnation was scripted into the plot my unsupervised brain had drafted; it was just something I was supposed to do.

It was beyond fucked up, but I got hard again remembering the bits that floated to the surface as I shifted out of sleep and realized I was soaking wet from the chest down, but it took a minute to process that I'd had a wet dream.

I had been playing with my dick and making it burp before I even knew it was a sex organ. The first time my ass tingled, and liquid came out my cock hole, I thought my perseverance in fiddling with my piss hose had magically unlocked a unique trick; a trick I practiced several times a day after discovering it.

So, even though I occasionally dreamt about sex, I stayed dry as a bone during those typically awkward nocturnal emission years because there was never anything to ejaculate while sleeping.

That night's dream certainly appealed to the animal inside me, and yes, some of those guilty, horrible-person, vibes, I'd experienced the night before, definitely came back as I carried my semen-soaked bed clothes to the wash after a lengthy, sticky effort to peel my gooey and partially dried boxers from my body.

I did cut myself a little slack for the dream, as I'd not intended any of it. I think you get to do that with dreams. It doesn't mean there are no consequences, however, as anyone who's dreamed of fucking someone they would never fuck in real life, can attest.

I was on high alert as I rushed the sticky wad to the laundry room, checking around corners before proceeding, the whole time feeling like I was flooding the house with the biological bleach smell that can only ever be semen.

After starting the wash, I grabbed a bottle of deodorizer and began spraying, but it occurred to me as I did, that I'd cum all over that basement and had never once thought to mask the residual smell. It was purely the sinful, taboo nature of what had facilitated this particular load, that had me feeling like I needed to cover my tracks.

Even with the slack I'd given myself for the dream-incest, I was a little disturbed and I felt like a bit of an awful person as I went about my day, trying to forget as I logged into my computer and began checking the usual sites for listings of broken electronics, I knew I could repair and turn a profit on.

The previous evening's events weighed heavy on my mind the entire morning, and I only ever found any reprieve from my guilty conscience in the moments I was most focused on delicate repairs that required magnification and a steady hand.

I had no idea how I was ever going to look Mom in the eye again. I even skipped my normal first cup of coffee, but then I started to get very irritable and eventually got a headache; something that often happens when I skip the caffeine.

I checked the hallway camera and saw that my mother's bedroom door was shut, so I ran up to brew a quick cup, then instantly wished I'd bothered to check the kitchen camera too.

"Fu-- Hey Mom," I said, startled to see her standing like a wax statue in front of the sink with both hands cradling an oversized mug.

She looked like she was feeling pretty rough, squinting at the light poking in through the window behind the sink. She seemed to be in a daze, just slowly blinking at the pool nobody ever swam in, in our backyard.

"Oh, hey sweetie," she finally said in a voice that was just above a whisper.

"Feeling pretty rough, are ya?" I asked, avoiding eye contact by focusing exclusively on the mug I'd grabbed, and then the Keurig as I swapped in a fresh K-cup.

Mom continued to stare out the window and while I had no personal experience with hangovers, seeing her out of the corner of my eye was making me wonder why people drank in the first place. She seemed to be in a very unpleasant

state. I passively wondered how much she remembered from the previous evening.

Then, as if reading my mind, she said, "I'm sorry if I was loud getting home last night. I might have had too much to drink."

She tilted her head in my direction and offered a half smirk before bringing her oversized mug to her lips and tipping it all the way back, draining whatever was left in one gulp and setting it down in the sink with an audible groan.

I wondered how long she'd been standing there staring out the window. It had to have been a handful of minutes, because she'd just gulped down what seemed like a half a cup of coffee without flinching.

"I didn't really notice," I lied without taking my eyes off my brewing cup of joe.

"Oh, uh, good," she said.

I saw her glance over at me in my periphery then, but I continued to watch my coffee.

"Ugh, I feel so rough," she said after a beat, and I noticed that she'd resumed watching the backyard.

"I need to get some work done but I don't want to do it. I have that stupid open house for the Kellers on Monday, and that awful woman is going to nitpick everything I send her for review," she added after a moment of silence.

She hadn't taken her eyes off the window so far as I could tell. I was laser focused on the stream of black liquid filling my cup, probably to a degree that looked a little odd.

"You okay, Greg?" Mom asked.

Now I had to look at her.

"I'm good, uh Mom. I hope you feel better," I replied, managing eye contact for a couple seconds before snapping my focus back on the coffee.

I knew I probably looked unnatural, but I couldn't help it. Even in her hungover, slightly haggard state, I was panicking inside as I realized I was suddenly finding the most innocuous things about her, very attractive.

Like, why was the little divot of smooth skin between her clavicles at the base of her neck, suddenly sexy as hell? Had she always stood like she was standing right then, with the toes of one foot cutely curled against the floor and one curvy hip out and slightly higher than the other?

"Ahhwww-kay," she said, mouth stretching wide as she failed to stifle a yawn. "Oeey, excuse me."

She gave me a forced smile and turned to leave, her eyes flicking away and then back to me twice as she pivoted.

That's when it happened.

I've puzzled over this moment countless times, replaying it over and over, sometimes voluntarily.

I don't know how long it actually lasted, it was probably just a few seconds, but in my recollection, it plays in super-slow motion with sunlight framing it and soft jazz playing in the distance.

I'm fairly certain that I at least tried to stop myself. There was a moment, I recall, where I looked over at the fridge and thought the word: milk.

I usually put a splash or two of milk in my coffee, but I wasn't actually thinking about milk, I believe my conscience was trying to latch on to some kind of anchor to prevent me doing what I did.

My eyes flicked away from the fridge, down to the floor, then to her. Then I was fucked.

I initially registered the overall shape of her body as she walked away from me.

Mom wasn't very tall, but I don't think she's short enough to qualify as petite, either.

I was, of course, already aware that she had chestnut brown hair. It usually framed her face in loose curls that came to her shoulders, but it had been in a tight updo the previous evening and was currently a bit disheveled.

I also knew that she had large brown eyes; they always made me think of summer. She was happiest at that time of year and her eyes seemed to light up when the sun was shining on her.

But I've been familiar with those features all my life, along with her high cheek bones, little nose (Dad used to tease her that it had been stolen from a garden gnome), a long, graceful neck, and full strawberry lips. Having a pretty mom was not something that came as a revelation to me, but seeing your mother as a pretty lady is very different than seeing her as a mind-numbingly incredible piece of ass.

It was the understanding that she was now also the latter, that I found myself treading unfamiliar, ominous, yet undeniably sexy, waters.

I had an idea that her curves had always been there, but perhaps they'd not always been as pronounced or defined, or maybe I just hadn't been able to appreciate them for that semipermeable veil of familial obscurity that had heretofore masked her sexuality from me.

She'd been spending a lot of time with her personal trainer, which I'd thought was a good thing to attract potential suiters, never once thinking of the effect it might have on me.

Later, when the slow-motion replay of this began to loop endlessly in my subconscious, it would be the color and the fabric of her robe, like an enticing thumbnail for a video I just had to click on, that would bring it back to the forefront of my thoughts.

That dainty, sexy, maroon robe I couldn't forget if I wanted to, was tied high up around her waist, scrunching up the fabric that was drawn together there. The silky material flattened quickly as it cascaded down over her skin, conforming to her body as it fanned out over her shapely hips and ass, snugly kissing her curves before loosely dangling down to her knees.

I could almost see the skin tones through the somewhat sheer fabric. It shifted, almost imperceptibly over her skin as she walked, lightly caressing the shapes underneath that seemed somehow firm and soft at the same time.

Her gate had suddenly become hypnotic in a way my brain had not allowed before. She was every bit a woman, and quite possibly the perfect embodiment of what it meant to be one. She was suddenly radiating femininity in a gut-punching, cock-stiffening expression of nature's cleverness.

She was designed to do to men what she was suddenly doing to me, and the shape of her tugged at something primal inside me, appealing to a biological mandate stamped onto my DNA. She, and women like her, were our species' insurance policy, guaranteeing the preservation of the human race in every curve of her body and every magnetic sway of her hips.

The bottom half of her hourglass figure was more dramatically curvy than the top half. Her high waist tapered dramatically into sexy hips I could somehow feel in my hands; my fingers curling into loose fists at my sides as I imagined holding her pelvis between them.

Her tight lower back swooped out gracefully, yet dramatically to become the two perfect little humps I was currently eye-fucking. They sat high on the tops of her thighs, bubbling out round and firm behind her, almost like little oval shelves that bounced slightly before snapping back into position with each of her sexy little steps.

Her caboose was designed for slow, reverent, doggystyle sex, and part of me wanted to do exactly that, but I was mostly fantasizing about how it would taste, and how it would feel against my cheeks when I buried my face in the crack, making it the filling of a mom's-ass sandwich.

The juicy mound of vaginal flesh I'd seen between her legs earlier that morning, had looked soft and smooth, seemingly waxed with a hint of inner labia peeking through puffy mounds of outer labia on either side. I needed it in my mouth, certain it would all fit inside like the side of a peach if I opened wide enough.

My mouth watered as I imagined it; her warm, slick genitals dribbling her wetness into my throat while I greedily sucked and tongued inside her pillowy little peach.

Whether it was the gym or the genetic lottery, or a combination of both, she'd become the sexiest woman I'd ever seen. All of her bobbed in slow, hypnotic rhythm with the sway of her hips as she glided away from me, and it was all I could do to not follow in her wake.

The entirety of the ill-advised and unabashed moment of lurid gawking was framed in solacious, hungry desire, and I'm not going to pretend like I wasn't imagining the myriad ways I could enter her sexually, but something else was happening that I'd never really experienced.

There was a strange urgency, almost a need for her to notice me. I suddenly wanted to be near her so I could soak in sensory information. It was like all my faculties had suddenly had an additional task added to their function.

I wanted to feel the weight of her, perhaps sitting in my lap, just so I could get a sense of the space she occupied in the reality we shared.

I needed to know what she felt like in my arms, the warmth of her skin and the daintiness of her pretty little fingers touching my neck and face.

I wanted to feel the shifting of her muscles under the fabric of her clothes as she held me close and adjusted in my embrace.

I wanted to see those gorgeous brown eyes looking into mine, and I wanted to guess at her mood and thoughts while studying the expressions on her beautiful face.

I wanted to hear the sounds of her mouth as it kissed, laughed and whispered, and I wanted to breathe her into my lungs, to know what it was like to be completely saturated inside and out, by her presence.

I just wanted to be with her, sans boundaries and knowing that was impossible suddenly felt infuriatingly cruel.

I'd had passive crushes on celebrities, but this was the first time I'd had a crush on someone I actually knew. It was a novel experience for me, and it hit me like a bullet, completely exploding and twisting my reality with the intensity of the sentiment and the forbidden nature of the dynamic.

The veil that had heretofore blocked me from seeing her in this way had been ripped the previous evening by a reckless drunken moment, and

instead of letting time and distance mend it, I was actively lighting it on fire and letting it burn in my periphery so that I could get a better view of the perfection I'd discovered.

As I stood there, indulging in the novelty of the forbidden, unfiltered, and solacious ocular worship I was engaged in with the woman who'd raised me, I started to become aware of how hard my cock had become and the sensation of it suddenly made it all a bit too real, bursting the protective bubble of indifference that had allowed me to explore these alluring, yet reprehensible thoughts.

The shame I'd pushed aside so I could take her in as a woman, was pushing back and I suddenly saw myself as something ugly, something I despised.

I was no better than those boys who'd befriended me just so they could steal her panties, reducing her to a collection of well-contoured body parts that titillated their budding libidos.

I'd let myself become like them for a moment, and my heart suddenly hurt for her like it had those many years ago when her most private articles of clothing were displayed like trophies.

I was more than complicit this time; I was the perpetrator.

Just as I'd come full circle to this self-loathing state of mind, Mom picked that moment to turn and look at me.

I averted my gaze towards the floor as quickly as I could, but there had been a moment's hesitation, a delay in my reaction, when she'd have seen my face, registered the objectifying stare and, I assumed, understood what I'd been doing.

Surely, she was used to seeing it on strangers' faces. She might not reciprocate but a creature such as herself had to draw eyes everywhere she went. Would she, or could she, recognize it on her own son's face?

A small part of me wanted her to know, not because I had some silly hope that she was into it, but because she didn't deserve to live with someone like me, and I knew I was too much of a coward to confess.

When I looked up, she'd taken a half step towards me, her eyebrows narrowed in a look of confusion.

I wanted to melt into the cracks between the tile and cabinets.

She'd already been thinking I was turning into a creeper. What must she think of her degenerate son now!

I picked up my coffee and brought it to my lips, staring into the black, which wasn't how I normally drank it, but I was suddenly incapable of stepping towards the fridge and retrieving the milk.

I sipped the piping hot liquid, expecting that when I looked up again, I would see her advancing towards me, likely at a loss for words as she decided how best to express her outrage.

But when I looked up, she wasn't walking towards me. She'd turned back around and had continued towards her bedroom, leaving me to wonder how much of my abhorrent behavior she'd seen and what she'd thought of her filthy-minded son.