"Pornography," My Mother Said Pt. 01

First part of a series. Unchecked and unedited so there will be typos, etc. Hope any errors in the text aren't too off-putting.

By-the-way, voting and comments are disabled on this one. Anon is too tedious to be bothered with and this is supposed to be fun.

Thanks for reading.

GA - Plague Island, UK - 17 March 21 (Happy St Patrick's Day!)

***

I knew it was trouble as soon as I walked into the living room.

When I saw her face.

Dread was a lead sinker plummeting into the pit of my stomach.

She was sitting in her usual place on the sofa, the spot she occupied during the evening as she and my father watched TV. He had the big armchair while my mother sat on the left side of the couch, me in the middle if my sister was there as well. My sister was older than me, which meant she was a level above in privilege. It was the natural order of things, Familial hierarchy. The way it was.

That's why I had to sit on the gap between the cushions. It was either there or the floor. Those were the rules.

It was late afternoon on a Saturday when I walked into the living room and spotted my mother's expression as she was turning to look at me. I daren't ask what was wrong. I knew I'd find out soon enough. The question in my mind in those first few moments as the fear gripped my guts was would it be something my father would hear about. He had a temper and big, hard hands. I was scared of him.

There was a pause before she asked: "What's this doing in my house?"

When she held it up for me to see, I gulped, shame mixing in with the fear as my face started to burn.

The emphasis she put on 'this' wasn't lost on me. It meant serious problems. I could see her outrage.

Another pause followed, several seconds in which I had one of those moments that people talk about how they wish the ground would simply open them up and swallow them whole.

Then my mother said: "Well? I asked you a question."

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, eyes downcast because it shamed me to see her looking at me with the disappointment and loathing in her eyes.

"Pornography," my mother said, disgust in her tone.

There wasn't anything I could think of except to repeat: "I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't look at this," she said.

My mother tossed the magazine aside.

"If you want to know about things like that you just need to ask."

I glanced at her, not understanding what she was saying. I understood the words, of course, it was what she thought she could tell me about hardcore porn that had me puzzled.

When my eyes slid away from her, my mother asked, "What is it about dirty magazines that you like, exactly?"

I squirmed, humiliated, cheeks aflame, confused and worried about what my father would say and do.

"Tell me," my mother insisted as she picked the magazine up off the sofa. She brandished it like she was going to either hit me with it or throw it at me.

She asked: "Is it buttocks and breasts?"

I gulped again, swallowing down hard on all the awful feelings rising within. "I don't know," I said. "I'm sorry," I added, hoping to soften her enough to not tell my father.

"Do you like looking at ladies' breasts?"

I dared to look at her. "I don't know," I said.

I saw her top lip curl in disdain. My mother tutted and glanced at the magazine. It was Danish, full colour. It was also lurid and lewd, page after page of outrageous and highly improbable stories where people ended up fucking.

The photos were graphic, no-holds-barred pornography. It wasn't solo women posing to titillate, the magazine was the real thing. Women sucked cock and the men licked gaping pussy. They fucked in positions which gave the camera the best view of penetration. There were lovely blonde ladies with their lips stretched tight around the girth of some thick erections while other couples fucked in different positions. For me it was fabulous. I gawked at the images and I tugged my dick, squirting spunk when it got too much to take. It was porn and I loved it. I liked the way it made me feel to see naked people doing what my mother would call 'being rude'. I enjoyed the clandestine thrill of seeing such an intimate act, even by proxy. Sex to my mind was a private, intimate act, so to see the models in the magazines fucking and sucking and kissing in such a casual manner worked on me in a way which made my dick hard.

And I loved to touch it and make it spit thick, snotty cum.

But I was in trouble because my mother had found the contraband.

My mother sighed and shook her head while her expression suggested she pitied me. Then she said, "Really? God, come on, you're not actually saying you don't know if you like looking at ladies' breasts or not?"

"I didn't mean it," I said, wishing she would leave me alone.

Which is when the atmosphere changed. All of a sudden, for reasons I didn't understand but for which I was grateful at the time, my mother's whole demeanour shifted. It took a few moments but, after a pause, my mother glanced at the magazine and then flicked through a few pages.

I watched as she studied the images, her expression suddenly focussed and intent. It was only a couple of seconds of it before my mother glanced at me, the hardness behind her eyes shifting to something sly. It was only a flash, a glimpse of something I didn't recognise on my mother's face and I couldn't make sense of what I'd seen. I was too anxious, caught in the moment, worried about the punishment my father might mete out. But I saw it behind her eyes, a mercury quick flash and an odd twist to her lips before it cleared and she went back to the magazine.

Another few seconds of anxiety and shame tortured me before my mother looked at me again.

Then she surprised me by saying, "I won't tell your dad. You don't have to worry."

The relief was enormous as the knots of visceral dread slipped free.

My mother shook her head as she repeated, "I won't."

"I ... I'm sorry," I gasped.

She held up the magazine again. "You shouldn't bring things like this into the house."

My cheeks were still burning as I quickly nodded. "I know. I won't do it again."

My mother was stern as she said, "So, back to my question..."

I looked at her, shame a hot tide washing over me when she paused for a few seconds, the magazine held up for me to see.

She finished with: "What is it about this filth that you like?"

What could I say? What could I tell her?

Our gazes stayed locked for what felt like an age but must have been seconds, probably no more than five. Then my mother tutted and rolled her eyes. She dropped the magazine onto the sofa again, rising to her feet so she could face me square on.

"That's just sex," she said. "What they're doing," she added with another glance towards the sofa. "There's so much more," my mother continued, her attention back on me. She shrugged. "Is it because they're bare? Is it the ladies you look at? I don't think you're that way inclined, but it's the ladies, not the men. Am I right about that?"

Her meaning came at me in a flash of revelation. "I like ladies," I said, matching her stilted formal descriptions.

My mother nodded. "But seeing them touching men's penises excites you?"

I groaned and closed my eyes to bock out her stare. "I don't want to talk about it. Can I go? Please. I'm sorry I did it. I don't want you to be angry at me."

"No, you bloody-well can't," I heard my mother snap. "You'll stay and talk to me ... If you don't want me to tell your father."

I opened my eyes and gasped, "But you said you wouldn't."

"I won't, but we're going to get to the bottom of this."

"I said I'm sorry. I said I won't do it again."

"And I believe you."

"Please, I feel so silly."

Which is when the atmosphere changed. All of a sudden, for reasons I didn't understand, my mother's whole demeanour shifted. It took a few moments but, after another brief pause, my mother glanced at the magazine and then looked at me.

She sighed and gave me a gentle smile. "Poor baby," she said while stepping in to caress my cheek. "I understand how it feels. You look at those ladies and you get excited."

I was about to interject with yet another apology and a plea for her to let me go, the backs of her fingers brushing my cheek as she went on to say, "It feels so desperate, doesn't it? That feeling right down there..."

Her hand moved down to my stomach where she gently pressed her fingers against me.

She breathed, "There's a tickle, isn't there?"

I nodded, alarmed that my cock was responding to her touch and the soft, lulling tone of her voice.

It was oddly intimate, the sense of wrongness mixed in with swirling arousal as I looked into my mother's eyes and saw them partway glazed over, like her mind was somewhere else.

With that dreamy look on her face, my mother murmured: "It gets hard, doesn't it? Your penis?"

I gulped down against the surge of desire. I suddenly wanted to touch her like she was touching me. It was like she'd said: a desperate sort of tickle way down deeper than the pit of my stomach.

With dark urges ballooning within, I managed to nod and croak out a yes.

"Mm-hmm," my mother replied, grinning at me with what looked like amusement glinting in her eyes. "Well," she added, stepping back a pace, "I wonder if you ... touch yourself when you look at that magazine."

In a surreal couple of seconds, my mother held my stare and then, soft and casual, like it was an everyday thing, as easy as if she was asking if I wanted a snack, my mother said: "You could do it now, if you wanted. I won't be offended. It's a natural inclination."

A whole rush of thoughts and impressions clamoured inside me. I was struggling with my body's automatic response while trying to make sense of what she'd just said.

With it all going on, all I could say was: "I ... I don't understand."

The sly, oddly arousing smirk was on her face when she said: "You can touch yourself. Now. I won't be angry."

"In my bedroom?" I croaked.

My mother shrugged. "If you like."

She paused and my brain tried to catch up.

Then she confused me even more by saying: "Or in here. With me."

I boggled because I was sure she didn't mean what my ears were hearing.

I asked: "What do you mean?"

"Your penis. You can touch it."

My mother glanced down to the front of my jeans and then focussed her attention on my face, eyebrows twin arches of enquiry.

"I think it's hard. I think you want to," she added.

It appalled me to hear it. "No," I blurted, denying my cock was hard.

"You can look at me if you want to," my mother said as she threw another look at the magazine. "Not filthy, horrid pornography. You don't need to look at that!"

I boggled some more, then burst out with an incredulous: "Look at you?"

My mother nodded. "You like seeing ladies' breasts, don't you?"

"Mum, no..."

She shut me up by scoffing and waving a dismissive hand at me like: don't-be-so-silly. Then she said, "You do, admit it. I told you, I won't be angry. I don't want you looking at those magazines. They're just mucky. They're about people being rude. They aren't about love."

"Love?"

My mother nodded after I'd said it. "Love," she confirmed. "Magazines like that, well, they don't teach you anything. They're for dirty boys. They excite boys and make them rude. I mean, your penis gets stiff when you look at them, yes?"

In an unwitting gesture, I nodded at her question.

"There you are then. Now we're getting somewhere. Your penis gets stiff and you masturbate. You touch it and play with it and it gets so very good you feel all tingles and a sort of explosion. Isn't that right?"

I knew how it felt to be a boxer, battered and on the ropes as she just kept on coming at me, hitting me with irrefutable facts while my brain refused to accept I was hearing her say it.

"Mum, I don't know..." I groaned, hoping it was a dream.

Then she let me have another metaphorical punch by saying, "Does yours spit semen when you do it? Does goo come out?"

Lust exploded in the pit of my stomach when her question triggered the sweet recollections of masturbatory frenzy inside my head. Did mine spit semen? Did goo come out? The answer was, God, yes, fountains of the stuff.

My mother nodded as I squeezed my eyes shut and I let out a groan.

"I'll take that as a yes," she said.

She was looking at me when I opened my eyes.

A pause and then she murmured: "I know I'm old, but, well, I'll let you look at my breasts."

I felt my hands and legs tremble as I nodded quickly. I didn't properly understand what I was doing, but the dark urges and desperate need were on me.

She asked: "Do you like ladies with large breasts?"

Her fingers were at the buttons on her loose, black, velvety blouse as she asked it.

My mother snapped the bottom three buttons loose, working upwards as she added: "Or do you prefer small ones?"

I knew my mother's were big, so I croaked out the acceptable answer.

"Hmm, all right," she said, the blouse curtained to reveal tit-flesh bubbling over the cups of her black, lacy-trimmed bra.

"Oh," I sighed as my eyes devoured the sight.

My mother posed, fists on her hips. "So, now, there you are," she said, thrusting her chin at me. "Now, you get it out. You want to touch yourself? You better get on with it."

Despite the surge of desire rushing through me, it occurred to me to ask: "What about dad? What if he...?"

"He's out until six," my mother said. Then, pre-empting my next question, added, "Annabel's staying at Mary's tonight, so she won't be home."

I couldn't remember actually unzipping my jeans, but the next I recall is my jeans were at my knees, the erection a ridge in my underwear, something feral in my mother's expression as she examined my frontage.

"Pants down," she said, pointing a finger.

I stupidly asked: "Is it all right?"

"I won't be angry," my mother said.

"You're lovely," I said without knowing I was going to say it.

My mother blinked, probably in surprise. "Oh, well, thank you," she said.

"Cuh-can I see them?"

I felt a momentary squeeze of disappointment when I saw my mother's expression cloud over. She muttered: "You don't want much, do you," but was already scooping one breast free. "There," she added while confronting me with a belligerent stare. "Mummy's breasts. Happy now?"

I gurgled a nonsense reply, unable to speak as I soaked up the detail of my own mother's bare boobs, their size and shape setting another surge of desire flooding through me. I stared and squeezed my dick through my underwear, excited way past anything I'd felt while looking at the magazine. They were there, cantilevered over her bra, saucer-sized areolae with elongated tips of her fleshy nipples at their centre. It made for an incongruous sight: my mother standing with her large breasts exposed, blouse open, skirt hem down past her knees, her familiar face set towards me wearing an expression I'd never seen on it before. She wore her ash-blonde hair straight in those days, the tips brushing her collarbone as I gawked in wonder, awed by what I was seeing.

I stared and moaned out, "Can I touch them?"

I knew I was pushing my luck but, emboldened with lust rushing hot inside me, I just had to ask.

"Touch yourself," my mother said with another thrust of her chin.

I gulped and stopped myself from begging, yanking my underwear down my thighs to reveal my arousal.

"Oh, well, just look t that," my mother said on what sounded like a gasp of appreciation. "I've never seen it with hair," she added. "My baby's all grown up."

My hand was on my dick. I was tugging its length, focus going from my mother's breasts up to her face and down again.

"There, you see," my mother crooned, "you don't need that filthy magazine. Isn't this better?"

"Mum," I groaned.

"Does that feel good?"

Good? It was sublime.

"It looks like it does," my mother continued.

"I love it," I gasped. "I love you."

"Oh, I know you love me," my mother replied. "But there's different kinds of love."

I wasn't really listening properly. I was far too excited and in urgent need of relief. It wouldn't take long. I knew my cock would be spitting cum without any delay.

I wanked and held back on the need to let it all go, my mother talking at me while I did it, parts of what she was saying percolating through.

I heard her talk about love, about how what she felt for me was different to the way she loved my dad. "I love him because there's attraction," my mother was saying. "We make love. Those people in that magazine are just having sex," she said. "And that can be fun. It's nice to be bare while we cuddle and kiss. We do it because it feels so nice. Like it feels for you right now. But we also do it to show one another love. That's why it's called 'making love'. That's what happens. It's for making babies, too. That goo makes a baby inside a lady. We made you ... And your sister. I love you because you're part of me. You grew inside me."

The language she used made the scene feel even more wrong. My mother spoke as though she was explaining the birds and the bees. She was giving me the facts of life like a lesson, the lecture oddly arousing because of the formal way she described it and because she used the proper words in her descriptions.

It couldn't have been going on for very long when my mother stopped talking about love and how babies were made. She must have seen the urgency in my face, the way I was gasping and moaning, my attention shifting up and down between her face and those large, round, and tempting tits.

I grunted and nodded when she asked, "Is it getting too much?"

"I don't believe it's happening," I said.

"Don't you dare make a mess," my mother put in, stern and no-nonsense.

"What should I do?"

After I said it, my mother shrugged the blouse from her shoulders. She caught it as it parachuted towards the carpet, throwing it to me.

"Do it in that," she said.

I didn't ask any questions. I wasn't bothered if spunk would ruin the blouse. The heat of what I was doing was on me, the sensations so sweet, my attention on my mother's body.

I wanked, the surge turning from simmer to boil while my mother kept talking.

She said: "It's happening because I love you. I don't want you to look at dirty ladies in those horrible magazines."

"You're lovely," I told her again.

"Mm, thank you," she said, eyes on my cock. "But I think that's because you're excited. Men will say anything when they're as excited as you are now."

"I mean it," I said, almost sobbing it out. I wanted her to know. I wanted my mother to understand I was sincere.

"My darling," she said.

"You're better than any of them in that magazine," I moaned.

My mother trilled a laugh, the sound delighted. "I'll take that as a compliment," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Thank you, I'm sure. I know what you mean; even if it is a little dubious comparing me to those tarts."

A moment later, the hot stuff fizzed through my cock. I gasped and moaned, holding my mother's soft, velvety blouse against my cock as I wrapped the cloth around the shaft to catch the outrush of thick, sticky fluid.

"Uh," I grunted.

"Oh!" my mother exclaimed. "Is that it? Is it your climax?"

I didn't reply with words. The moment was on me and the cum was pumping out on the joyous release. I moaned and almost fell when my knees started to buckle, saved from it when my mother stepped in and grabbed my arm at the biceps.

"Ooh, steady," she said.

I could feel the blouse was sodden as the pleasure tapered and cooled. I held it over my cock, spunk already cooling against the shaft. It felt gooey and sticky, my attention set on my mother's beasts as they swayed and jiggled while she held my arm.

I moaned when she asked: "Feeling better?"

"Mum..." I gasped.