My Son, Mr. Hyde

[This story is pure fantasy; there is no character under-age, no implied or intended under-age, no mention and no hint. All sexual situations are between consenting adults. If you are imagining anything else, you are mistaken.]

I don't even know how to describe the transformation or at what point it began, but my normal, suburban family lifestyle was upset to the extent that debauchery and incest became our norm. Something strange and obsessive crept into our family dynamic and has settled-in and become contagious like a virus. Everything seemed fine and happy until suddenly it all went haywire. And sadly (I think,) I enjoy the madness. Let me try to explain.

My name is Donna. I am 38 years old and in relatively decent shape. I have long raven-dark locks that flow to the middle of my back and when I'm flirting with my image in the mirror and standing bare-chested, I can let the dark waves fall over my bountiful C-cups, pretending that I'm Lady Godiva and just tease my sensuous appearance. It's fun to flirt and reminds me of my younger days, but really, I am an ordinary mom who just lives in her fantasies.

These big full tits of mine sit mostly firm on my chest with the pert nipples still poking forward. They're between a 34 and 36 depending on the bra I choose and the time of the month, with very minimal sag. I've often surreptitiously fondled my heavy globes or on "orders," by my degenerate ex-, I've been made to squeeze and lick them. I can understand why men like playing with women's tits so much, they're like heavy fluid-filled balloons that can be molded and kneaded with cute little knobs that in my case, are highly sensitive. And I enjoy having big, strong hands firmly take command of them and bend them to their will. It gets me even more horny to be roughly played with, but that's a fetish that unfortunately, I'm forced to keep to myself these days.

My belly is slightly muffinish, I wouldn't find work as a bikini model, but I still get whistles and extra-long stares when I'm casually dressed or jogging around the park. My backside could use a few more leg-lifts though in tight pants or short skirts it gives enough jiggle to draw second looks. And the one man who got to explore it more fully, was happy with the way it responded to his touch. I learned that anything anal-related can be made much more enjoyable if you can brush the idea of sin or bestiality away, incest has the same taboo scolds.

I stand about 5'10" and I enjoy wearing heels, so dresses with a side-slit or nicely worn jeans, emphasize my long, lean legs. Most men that I've met or dated, express their pleasure with seeing me in my stilettos, but they hate the fact that I then appear taller than they do. I just wish sometimes, that more people could act on their desires without worrying about their perceived faults. I know that with the right man, I could be a sexual dynamo, but explaining to a lover what it is that turns you on, can be a bit embarrassing. But I'm not actually or even actively, looking for a partner. I already found the love of my life. That was 22 years ago and he was tall, dark and handsome. And a firebrand in the sack! He not only taught me everything that I know about sex, especially some positions and physical acts that I once believed were inspired by the devil, but also to be proud of my body and free to express my passions with erotic clothing or sexual props or fantasies. That is what I've come to miss the most.

However, he found the love of his live about 12 years ago with some bleached-blonde, bimbo bitch, and I have had no good substitute since. He did leave me with a wonderful son who had no real memory of the bitterness, and who is now, the only man in my life. Plus, my hubby had the good graces to suffer a massive heart attack with his young whore before he could alter his life insurance. My son Scotty is now 22 years old with only a dim recollection of his father and of our bitter separation. I keep reminding him how lucky we are to have each other and to be well provided for. My son has his dad's outer characteristics without any of his dubious proclivities. Atleast that was my thought at the time.

So, I've been a single mom for most of his life and grew much more concerned with raising him than with my social life. Until recently, my energies were confined to grooming a good young man and living mostly in my memories. I tried hard to never become a 'helicopter mom." But when you're a single parent it's difficult not to hover and you always want to be there whenever he has a problem. I definitely didn't want him to be a "momma's boy," so I encouraged him in football and weight-training and was thrilled when he took an interest in science and medicine, as his father had. He has grown to be a kind and considerate clone of his dad and will be heading to medical school next year. But he's still my baby and I can't help but to sometime smother him.

I often still see the six-year-old little boy that would tip-toe into my bedroom trailing his teddy bear, if he'd had a bad dream or during very loud thunderstorms. I would let him sit on my lap when we watched late-night movies and would cuddle his frozen cheeks after he and his school chums built snowmen or went sledding. Ofcourse there was never anything sexual, just typical mother-son bonding. At a little older age, he would sit with me and recount his day as I applied makeup or allowed him to choose which pair of shoes I should wear when we went shopping. then he would follow me around like a puppy or guard me like a knight. This often led to me attracting knowing smiles from other moms and it just warmed my heart when I spied his proud, happy smile.

In his late teens, after our baths and a snack, we would snuggle under a blanket to watch TV. He in shorts and a tee, (because as he explained) he was too old for pajamas, and me basically in the same thing. I think he liked to dress like me and I thought it was adorable. When I applied powder or lotion, he liked it if I sprinkled some on him and I would pour some in his hands so he could rub those parts of my back and shoulders that were difficult to reach. And he especially savored brushing my long, silky hair which I did every night. With my husband now long gone, we forged our own relationship where we just felt natural together and intimate touching and snuggling was a part of it, but nothing at all sexual.

As he entered his twenties, I always told him how wonderful it felt to have his tender hands caress my skin and to pamper me, and I meant it. And though I would sometimes heave deep sighs of contentment or even low, unconscious moans of longing, I honestly never imagined anything sexual about it. Allow me to rephrase that... it was certainly sensual to be touched again like that, (this was the manner in which his father first seduced me on our early dates.) So the images and emotions that it engendered were enticing. But I repeat, there was nothing sexual about it.

But maybe I was blind to the feelings circulating in my son's head. He never hesitated to rub my shoulders or hold me close on cold nights. And I did catch him with a big erection on occasion. But he was a young man and I just considered it to be natural, after all, my panties sometimes got a bit sticky too.

A warm, gentle touch. Some soft, soothing words of love. Two people comfortable in a secluded setting, baring their souls with no hint of romantic passion. Exchanging and allowing intimate contact while half-dressed or under the privacy of blankets at the end of a sleepy night. He was just my young son. Nothing sexual or incestuous was implied. But the subliminal emotions that were dredged-up were often intoxicating. The images were always of a much older version of him, maybe that's why I felt so close to him. And the tall, dark stranger that always appeared in my fantasies but remained a mystery, began to take a more familiar and often disconcerting form.

It had been so long since anyone had touched me in that way. Even if I was in my own self-imposed exile. On some nights after his warm, massaging touch had roiled heated feelings in me that were better kept bottled-up, he would return to his room, or even more frustratingly, he would fall asleep beside me. His warm body cuddled close and the steady rhythm of his breathing beside me, could trigger some lewd scenarios that a mother should never have concerning her son.

Then with my nipples erect and the urgent, stimulating flow of vaginal juices heating my sex-starved pussy, I was forced to reach into my dresser drawer for my trusty vibrator if I was alone, or quietly strum my nervous fingers along my moistened labia while Scotty lay next to me. It wasn't him I was sure of that, but I worried about myself. It was just the thought of another long night alone and the hopeless feeling of my squirming body never being touched in "that way" again.

There were some nights when I was so jittery due to a crude thought or a subtle touch that my frame would begin to quiver with the undulating tremors that I knew signaled an impending orgasm. And there, with his soft head laying on my chest and nervous beads of sweat forming on my upper lip, my cleavage and my crotch, I slid my fingers slowly between my thighs trying not to disturb my son. I am a good mother and my mind never wandered into incest, but I am a grown woman with urges and I was shaking with unquenchable desire. I needed to fight the temptation of reaching between his legs and stroking that warm bulge that rested against my thigh.

My hope as always, was to not disturb my son or let-on to him that I was extremely horny so I always had to be careful and secretive about solving my little itch. My fingertips needed to silently diddle the straining pink nub of flesh while my hips bucked for action but without knocking Scotty off of the bed. On certain occasions the urges were so strong or the visions in my head so compelling that my moans startled my poor child. I certainly never wanted or intended to have him caught-up in my crazy fantasies. I was often forced to chew on the sheets to muffle the excited howls. When I lost control, the ensuing orgasm would shake the bed, tossing my son in his slumbers and causing me to hold him closer to my body to soothe him, but the effect only made me that much more horny.

But none of this meant anything or registered in my mind as seduction or any taboo thoughts of incest with my son. Though I'll admit that it was strangely satisfying to have the warm, pulsing body of a trusted confidant, even unknowingly to him, next to me and holding me as I reached my state of bliss. I just felt so comfortable with Scotty, either beside me or in the next room when my climax struck. It was just a safety net to know that he was there. He was always someone whom I could count on.

The days passed and I got used to the uneasy situation of being alone and dependent on my own orgasms. When he was a senior in high school and had reached the age of eighteen; and his broad shoulders and thick chest had filled out, and his firm jawline showed the shadow of dark whiskers and his father's dark eyes, it felt so natural and secure to be held in his arms and for me now, to be the one laying my head on his chest. His steady breathing and gentle fingers combing through my hair, settled yet often exhilarated me. He was eighteen now, and though he didn't have any intentions of arousing me, his grown-up body and swarthy appearance was literally an answer to my dreams. If I was younger or he older, the dirty thoughts may have drifted into perversion.

I should probably have started keeping my distance from him, but how do you rationalize that? "Sorry Scotty, every time I'm near you I need to cum." There were moments when he touched me so tenderly or at exactly a vulnerable spot, that an involuntary shiver spasmed through my tingling torso and it was embarrassingly obvious that my perky nipples were poking through my thin tee or delicate lingerie. Plus the fact that he was of legal age now, only made those crude fantasies a bit more raunchy to my mind.

Other times while he softly rocked me to sleep or when we cuddled on the sofa, my hand or arm would graze lazily across a lumpy, hot bulge at his pelvis. He would then squirm in his seat, trying to not so obviously adjust his swollen cock in his tight pants. We might both wince in humiliation and a throaty hum or a deeply-drawn breath would escape from us both. Reddened faces and a prolonged silence would follow, with each of us hoping that the other was clueless. Even with no sexual intent, we needed to suddenly separate or remove the offending hand as if we touched a hot stove. The awkward silence and halting, faltering breathing could not easily be glossed over and while no more words were spoken, we probably both wondered if our minds could be read.

Some things were just too obvious to camouflage. Like my straining nipples or his swollen cock. And no material short of armor, would conceal our guilty conditions. Not wanting to belabor a taboo thought, we would simply ease a little further apart or pick-up a magazine or pretend to concentrate on the television. Never speaking a word about that prohibited topic that was now certainly foremost in our minds. Though each of us would be tempted to steal a sideways glance at the other one's obvious discomfiture. But not mentioning the pink elephant, doesn't make him go away.

He was 18 years old. At that age young men have constant hard-ons and they are ready to pop if the wind blows. He was well-hung, it was painfully evident. And I couldn't hide my tits, (Oh, I guess I could have. But it was my house and we were usually preparing for bed.) I couldn't just say to him, "Hey, are you getting hard from looking at your mom's tits? Why don't you stroll to your room and rub one off?" He probably already did when I wasn't around.

And who knows what he was thinking. "Hey mom, do you ever consider wearing a bra when you bend over infront of me?" Or maybe something like, "Is there any location on your body that doesn't send you into orgasmic convulsions if I merely brush against you?" I wasn't blatantly coming-on to my son, or even subconsciously doing it (I hope.) I kept myself in shape so that somebody might find me attractive. I also realized that if I wasn't seriously dating anyone, and if I wore skimpy clothing around the house and enjoyed being intimate as any adult would, then naturally some clumsy sexual situations could arise. I just imagined that we could handle whatever came along. (I don't mean like that!)

I mean, how could I not notice that Scotty was now 6'2" with wavy black hair, a killer smile and smoldering chocolaty brown eyes on top of a chiseled physique that was constantly glistening with sweat from working out or looked so innocent when studying. And that no matter what type of shorts or pants that he wore, my ravenous eyes were inexorably directed to that prodigious tent that sprouted between his legs. He was constantly repositioning the steely erection in his denims but was I not supposed to notice? And with every advertisement on TV featuring a cute, scantily-clad woman, I watched as the leering smile settled on his face and the bulge raised at his groin. I silently, subtly moaned my perverted passions when his rough hands accidently swiped near my boobs to reach for something or in close quarters when that substantial bulge pressed against my rear end as he passed behind me, seemingly for just a second too long.

He was of legal age now; an adult in build, in mind and in action and my mind and body reacted in a very adult way. My fantasies took-on a very consistent pattern and my gaze was often drawn to the motions of his strong, young torso. And in the throes of solo-ecstasy, I was now forced to guard against muttering or moaning any name or reference that could be embarrassingly overheard.

My own hands had not been so near, so repeatedly, to a firm, erect, man-sized cock in so many years that I was sorely tempted to just once, finally grab it and stroke it so that it would pump its warm liquid into my yearning mouth. His father would have had me on my knees at any of these sensual moments. He once conditioned me to respond to the question, "Where do you belong?" by replying that, "I belong on my knees sucking your big cock." I still long for that throbbing erection that in my mind, is shooting its creamy stream into any of my wanton openings. Every glance or each dull moment, not to mention every single sleepless night led me to fantasize about that forbidden, firm, young, last-all-night, gigantic column of pulsing flesh just on the other side of my bedroom wall. And to have a man who knows exactly what he wants from a woman and is confidant enough to allow her to enjoy being submissive.

There would be moments when I lost myself in these crude daydreams and even totally dressed and with my grown son in the room, I would lose track of what I was doing in the middle of the afternoon. The memories could be brought-on by the slightest thing. Anything could bring-on the image of me- half naked, collar around my neck and on my knees, slurping his mammoth cock between my ruby-red lips. I could feel the girth of his veiny organ in my grip as I fed it in and out of my hungry mouth. My cheeks would expand with each hearty thrust and my hair would be wrapped around the fist of this powerful man. His balls slapped against my chin and the full length of his shining tool slid back and forth, choking me. I could feel the full weight of his throbbing shaft on my tongue and prepared myself for the approaching deluge, relaxing my throat and swallowing hard. Then I would startle myself back to consciousness making smacking sounds from my lips and dribbling strings of saliva down into my cleavage. My teary eyes snapped open and I gasped for air. I can't imagine what Scotty would be thinking when he glanced over and caught me in one of these nasty musings. Pheromones must have been thick in the air.

'Till then, it was always my ex-, feeding me his enormous cock or "forcing" me to fuck him in any way that he desired. But as my delusions multiplied, and the unpleasant memory of my late husband's deceptions intruded on my filthy thoughts, the sex remained vivid but the owner of the prick grew a bit fuzzy.

But one thing- to me, they were only hands and a cock! I fully understood what this was leading to, but I tried my best to fight this incestuous dilemma. My erotic visions and corrupted fantasies were of a young, dark, well-hung stud that could keep my secrets and release my most craven, lewd sexual fetishes that only my dreams, my ex- and my vibrator are privy to. To keep my sanity and to keep me out of jail, I never even whispered his name. Nor did I ever visualize his face in these lurid wet dreams. Just a faceless, nameless sexual partner who knew my needs and could bring-out my inner-slut. This anonymous fantasy-dom had taught me and tamed me and was now free to use me for his infinite sexual pleasure. And I got-off by being his obedient bitch.

That's the main thing that kept me from the dating scene. It's difficult enough to find an unmarried, attractive man who wants to spend casual evenings with a single mother. I don't spread my legs for just anyone. There has to be some serious emotional attachment. I don't want or need a reputation as a clingy chick or a gold-digging cunt. I'm a good and loving mother, but I have a secret. I could be a sexual dynamo if the right person knew the correct approach. I want to give of myself but my partner needs to understand how to approach me and the proper advance to take me.

How do I get that message across on a first date? At what point do I express my deviant desires? If I push too soon, I'll get fucked... but then I'm fucked! If I resist or play "hard to get," for too long, I'm a cock-tease. Either way I'll be going to bed with a fuckin' dildo again.