My Son, Mr. Hyde

I had fantastic sexual relations with my husband. He was a smooth, generous lover who took the time to know me and ease into sex. The erotic foreplay and wet kisses along with continual caressing relieved my virginal tension. His gentle exploration of my writhing body taught him which touches sent me into orbit and the special ones that opened me to the animal impulses that had me begging for more. After his slow seduction, I was primed and submissive to his more aggressive approaches. By taking the time to bring me to multiple orgasms and to teach me that the things that made me climax, and the willingness to allow a partner access to my private parts in such a lusty fashion, I was eager to learn new ways. His naughty suggestions ultimately led to anal sex, bondage, exhibitionism and S & M scenarios. All of which I grew to enjoy and desire, and their continued absence from my life became agonizingly frustrating to me.

And I was no longer in my twenties. I was now fortyish and knew what I wanted. My body could be given with pleasure to the man who could bring-out my inner-slut. I kept myself in shape and was mature enough to not be embarrassed or shamed by alternative forms of sex and I was willing to accept my submissive nature in all things sexual, but I had no partner that I could trust. Not everybody likes this type of sex or is even comfortable discussing it, but I am. Is that my fault? But the man who can unlock my hidden desires and release my passions will find that I'm very willing to please and that I understand and enjoy my position in an S & M relationship.

Scotty wasn't the perfect scholar or athlete. And that, in no way disappointed me. I never wanted him to be a social nerd or a dumb jock, and I forced myself to let him be a regular teenager with all of the resultant ups and downs. I know that he had some sexual experience though I didn't intrude, other than the "safe sex" talk and laughing with him about my not wanting to become a grandmother yet.

I also permitted him the occasional beer when we ate take-out pizza or wings. I'm sure that some of his friends drank, but I cautioned him about moderation and resisting the temptation to do drugs. In other words, I wanted him to be a normal, good kid.

He would be graduating from college soon, pre-med and on the football team. I was extremely proud of him but beginning to realize what a gaping hole that this would leave in my life. Depression sunk in. I probably started drinking a bit more than I should have, but it was mostly to let me sleep without the dreams of my past love life or of the future loneliness that I was dreading. And of being on my own with no one to guide me or to act as a compatible influence. I began to think that nobody would ever take the place of the second man now, that was leaving me alone. I had found great sex but false love with one man and absolute love but zero sex with another, and in just a few weeks I would be on my own again. I wished that Scotty could somehow remain mine, but I understood that he needed to expand and express himself.

My dreams, my fantasies, sometimes just while reading a book or watching a commercial, my kinky mind would wander-off to some darkened path where my most hidden, illicit desires were summoning me. The daydreams became more constant and more erotic. A cool breeze could cause ripples of goose-flesh to make my body shiver and stiffen my perky nipples. That could trigger a crude memory of my ex-, strumming his bony fingers into that moist nest between my thighs. If I was alone, I would drop my panties right there on the couch and probe two little digits into my steaming cavern and envision a large man with a big cock stuffing me to both his, and my delight. I would hammer-away at my own sloppy cunt as my imagination brought images of debauchery to life. I just wanted a firm cock and a strong hand. Is it too much to ask, for someone to ravish my horny body and to make me cum like a tramp?

I didn't want just a cheap, dirty tryst to get my rocks off. Or some horny, drooling pervert to paw and defile my pussy. But I did understand that my strongest emotions and deepest orgasms were only achieved if I could relax with the man that I was with and trust him completely to guide me to that threshold of erotic ecstasy that most people only whisper about. It was labeled deviance, perversion or raunchy but to me it was an offering to the man whom I truly wanted to be with.

I normally had to hide my sexuality in the house. When I would peel off my underwear just before stepping into a hot, sudsy tub of water in a steamy, sweaty bathroom, I would wiggle my hips just a bit more as I was so often "ordered" to do in the past. And the small palms of my hands would make my boobs appear bigger as I cupped my full breasts and tweaked the pouty tips as I was taught to, whenever my master wanted me to present my bare breasts for his leering examination. I was groomed to be a submissive consort and I loved it.

After the bath, memories could be sparked by opening my lingerie drawer. There in the back, gathering dust, were the red, pink or black sheer silky or translucent material of the naughty undies that were ostensibly Valentines, birthday or Christmas presents given to me, but were mostly for his entertainment. Since they were worn for only a moment until they were rumpled into a pile around my ankles and then kicked aside, so that he could get to my pussy. I still wear a pair on occasion when I dress up and go out for the evening. They make feel sexy and wanted, but its more torture than pleasure when I get home and remember what I've been missing.

Then there was the table by the bed where the bottom shelf held the "magic box." It's been years since I opened it, mostly for the same reason, that I would just be going through the motions and trying to trick myself that I was satisfied. Recently though, I stopped by the store to purchase extra batteries and a new bottle of flavored lube. Telling myself that I was only being silly, I instantly shoved them into the "box." But that was just an excuse to take inventory and finger the studded collars and butterfly attachments and the assortment of dildos, plugs and whips that always excited my desires. Soon, I would be by myself in this big, empty house and I wasn't happy to be sleeping alone.

I couldn't talk to my son about anything like this, or even admit the potential reality of this taboo situation aloud. I had no real close girlfriends to whom I could confess this perversion. And I wouldn't be certain how to even start a conversation like this anyway. What is the protocol? Do you gather some friends around a porno marathon and liberally pour wine and tequila? Hoping that maybe one other semi-drunk lady might see something familiar onscreen and in an 80-proof confession admit to some hidden impermissible dalliance with her grown son? Do I go online and surf incest sites, preparing myself for the flood of incoming proposals from "wanna-be step-sons" and stories about opening-up to my fantasies, regardless of norms?

I've seen enough porn where the bored housewife fantasizes about her son blackmailing her into sex or the woman that discovers a spy-hole in her room that leads to her son's bedroom. And as for the S&M stuff, do you agree to a first date with a man and over coffee, gradually introduce the notion that you get turned-on by whips, collars and butt-plugs? I should just resolve myself that nothing that I wished-for would ever happen quickly or easily. It looks like quite a few more lonely nights with fantasies and vibrators. Alot of women stifle their true sexuality, I guess that I was just going to join the club.

I was becoming warped. Fortunately, there were no outward signs to the general public and my son was never alerted to anything other than his single mom sometime moping around the house and sometime smothering him with age-inappropriate cuddling. But my frustrations were growing and I needed a little more "alone time" everyday. My nightly bath ritual became more of a masturbatory exercise as my fidgety fingers spent more time "washing" my extended clit, as all of the other parts of me combined. Leaning back and imagining visions of spankings, hair-pulling, or rough forced blowjobs, had me thrashing on the porcelain and jabbing my digits in my horny hole until the suds lathered-up and overwhelmed me and I needed a cold shower just to calm down.

When drying off or changing clothes, I spent twenty minutes infront of the mirror just cupping and kneading my hefty globes. The weight of my pliant orbs as I balanced them in my hands excited me and I could imagine someone else fondling them while I swooned. I could lose myself in the fantasy that these were someone else's hands stripping me and squeezing my tits. My neck would bend forward and my moist tongue would snake-out to lick the pert, pink nubs that capped my firm rack. This lewd act was a "request" often made by my hubby as a signal from me that I was willing to do anything, and when I saw the reaction that it garnered, it got me hot too. I was often directed to pinch, pull and twist my pouty nibs until they turned purple and stood-out an inch from my chest. But that taught me to enjoy the rougher treatment of my firm juggs.

I kept the dark, kinky hair of my pussy trimmed into a small triangle as much to always have a reason to manipulate my labia as for the routine maintenance. I was shaved bald for awhile, but that was one point where I protested. I told him that I was not a little girl and I did not wish to look like one. As much as I told him that he "owned" my pussy, it was still mine and I'll trim it as I want. But I did keep it short and soft, just the way he preferred.

And these days, this was usually a convenient excuse to put the razor away and then spend the time with oils or creams to soften the intimate skin and spark a certain sexual flow. And ofcourse the extra oil on my hands would somehow "spill" onto one of the dildos that I had "forgotten" to put away after cleaning it. In wiping-off the excess lubrication, I sometimes brought the large plastic phallus too near to my yawning orifices, its giant dome shiny and slick and it slipped inside either or both of my awaiting passages. Once accidently inside of me, I couldn't resist the urge to just pump it back and forth a few dozen times to make me squeal. I always felt a bit guilty, but I learned to get over it.

In bed I was becoming increasingly drawn to the "magic box" as if it whispered to me as though I were Pandora. The assorted shapes and colors of the dildos, the flavored gels, leather products, ball-gags... kept me from sleeping. Some evenings I just needed to feel them in my hands and to smell the leather or rub them gently against my silky body. And just the thought that they were so nearby, tempted and tortured me like a child eyeing the wrapped presents under the Christmas tree. And if I didn't fall instantly to slumber, then my traitorous digits would steal down my belly and worm their way into the wiry, wet patch of pubic hair guarding the entrance to my pleasure center. I would lie to myself and mumble a trite phrase such as "just this once," or maybe "only for a minute." And then in my fevered dreams, I would suck, fuck, pinch or tug until I quenched that raunchy desire until the next time.

Laying in bed with or without the lewd attachments, but the dirty images swirling in my mind and the hot moisture bubbling in my loins, I would start to sweat and be able to only think about my yearning cunt. There is no distracting yourself when this urge hits. It wasn't long until the visions would start and involuntarily, my fingers combed through the dewy curls and tweaked at the protruding nub of pinkened flesh that triggered the oncome of my spasms. A practiced palm abraded the tender lump of reddened skin. The squirming began and drool dripped from my lips. I pictured strong hands holding me down and spreading my legs apart. His hips wedging between my thighs and a forceful, bulbous organ prying open my delicate outer lips. I pretended to resist and shout that this is not what I wanted, but that merely heightened the pleasure.

The rough intrusion to my tender cavern seemed all too real. I could feel the thrusting and the ultimate determination. The convulsions started and my hips bucked for more, as I shrieked every obscene oath that I knew. Indelicately, I would be splayed flat-out on the bed naked and sweaty. My legs spread and knees up. My ass would be grinding and thumping off of the mattress with sticky, oily fluid puddling at my crotch. My muffled shrieks were swallowed by the damp pillow. The warmth flooded over my lusty body and a trickle of thick creamy fluid oozed down my thigh. I took a deep breath and exhaled a long sigh.

Then I realized (again!,) that I was alone and I wanted to cry.

Wherever and whenever this marvelous sensation took place, or which manner of seduction or abduction was re-enacted, the mental build-up was thrilling and the physical climax was toe-curling. But the emotional letdown was so deep because I was suddenly aware that this was a recurring, miserable nightmare. I needed a man! I needed a release. I needed a satisfying finish to my erotic fetish. And I needed it soon. The repercussions would just have to follow.

Reaching into the toy box was not the answer. Though I would be happy again to buckle the chain collar around my neck or slide into the leather bustier that lifted my C-cups to a point just under my chin. I would readily strap into the "stripper heels" with the fishnet stockings and allow myself to be thrown over the back of the couch or secured to the St. Andrew's Cross. And I could be convinced to once again plunge the big dildos into my mouth and ass, and writhe on the bed for his amusement. But dressing-up and using dildos when you're alone is simply a signal of desperation. With the right man to guide me and to fulfil my wishes, I would lovingly stroke and lather those large, knobby columns of solid Silicone and express to my master, that they are the symbol of my submission and willingness to obey.

If I was teetering close to the edge, atleast I was always confidant in my son. I maintained a demure attitude where he was concerned and though we often spoke of mature matters, he was always a respectful son and I was his doting and dutiful mother. I truly believed that I never wanted that to end.

He was my rock. Now a grown man, when we watched late night movies together, and cuddled under a blanket, my mind would sometimes wander and I would imagine myself the female lead in some of the steamy scenes. Then I might wonder to myself why the male "heartthrob," whom she obviously had "the hots" for, didn't just rip off her flimsy bodice and drive her to her knees, fucking her from behind like an animal. With my eyes squeezed tightly shut, I would picture her impaled on his huge tool until he was ready to shove it down her lusty throat and fill her with his gooey cream. When the anticipated tingle shook my fragile frame and a low moan escaped my lips, Scotty would simply roll his soft eyes and hug me tighter, suspecting only that the old film made me feel nostalgic.

One night, the power went out just at bedtime. I was feeling particularly low and insisted that he stay by my side, even holding me in his strong arms until I fell asleep. Despite his irrefutable logic that the room was always dark when I went to bed, I was nervous and just felt more secure with him next to me. He calmed my fears and "spooned" with me as we settled under the covers. Drowsiness, a little drunkenness and depression brought-on the visions. The anonymity and intimacy of being practically naked and in the arms of a big, comforting man in a totally dark room, sent those wildly orgasmic sparks rippling through my pelvis and caused my trembling frame to shiver. Scotty wrapped me in his arms and nuzzled my neck as if I were a child afraid of the dark. If he really knew what I was afraid of...

His calloused hands smoothed the goosebumps that textured my anatomy and the warmth of his legs intertwined with mine, settled my nerves. I backed against him, thinking only to cuddle closer but felt the unmistakable bulge bumping into the gap at my crotch, then nudging into the crack of my ass. And noticing a slightly tighter hold from his arms under my boobs. Although he didn't move, he really didn't have to, for my reactions to go over board. I was straining to remain composed. He didn't respond and I figured that he was also falling asleep, so since he was here at my urging, I didn't wish to disturb him or mention something that might embarrass us both. But the roiling emotions that centered deep in my uterus and rippled like waves of passion began their accustomed torrent, and I could do nothing more than lay there helpless in my delirium.

I counted on my son and knew that I could trust him. My body and mind seemed to be on the verge of betraying me, but Scotty was a steadying force and I had unwavering faith in him. His deep breathing and contented posture convinced me that he was now in Dreamland and the subtle, slow movements of his twitching fingers were only involuntary responses to sleep. I squeezed my thighs together and pressed the palm of my hand on my pubic mound hoping to submerge my sensual impulses. The room was black, the only sound was deep breathing and yet my quivering body was both sweating and tingling with craven desire. I tried to clear my head and close my eyes, hoping that sleep would soon overtake me.

This is the point in most erotic fantasies that a very predictable twist occurs... and mine is no different.

The shaky beginning to that night passed with no further issues. And I felt much better and a bit more confident in that stressful test of my self-control when nearly the identical situation soon popped-up again. Another evening when I may have been drinking too much. Scotty was in for the night so I allowed him a few beers, too. A harsh thunderstorm kicked-up with blinding flashes of lightning and the movie that gripped our attention was a modern, gory slasher film. Since he was little, he always jumped at sudden loud noises, and I was a typical girl, frightened of dark houses and people wearing masks.

So we huddled together, our senses maybe dulled (or possibly heightened,) by alcohol but our nerves frayed by outside influences. Every second, one of us was startled or gasped at a darting sensation and the other would press tighter while the shaky victim burrowed a terrified head into the heart-thumping chest of the other. Pulses quickened and the temperature under the covers rose as our body-heat jumped. We were twitchy and sweaty, not knowing what may come next.

Tension, confusion, body-contact and a touch of alcohol kept us locked together under the blanket with a lot of heavy breathing and joined limbs. Roving hands and intimate touching in close quarters would seem natural in most mother/son settings under these conditions. And if I squeezed my eyes tight and disregarded the taboo thoughts that were always whirling in my head, I would feel that way too. But my desperate, erotic passions were aroused beyond the familiar and my son's firm, warm, sensual bulk presented an 80-proof temptation that allowed only one chance for escape.

I untangled my half-dressed, sweat-sheened body from his loving grasp and smoothed the translucent material of my clingy nightshirt. Rising from the couch, I spied an unusual ogling gaze in his dark eyes and a wolfish grin to his smile. And as he sat there in only grey, flannel trunks, a rather obvious and obscenely intrusive mound had formed in his lap and he was doing nothing to hide it. His eyes were sizing me up as he scanned my jittery torso from top to bottom. I felt naked and trapped, ready to give-in to any crude demand. Or was I just too drunk and sex-addled to be thinking straight. Taking no more chances with my teetering modesty or with my son's smoldering virility, I bid him a hasty "good night," pecked him on the forehead and climbed the stairs to bed. He replied that he might stay and watch another movie.