Who's Your Daddy?

This is my mom! She can't be talking about her tits or shoving them in my face. I'm only human and I fear that my filthy fantasies could land me on cell block-D. And she can't be masturbating my cock. What other conclusion am I to draw from all of this? My mother wants my cock and I want to have wild, farm animal sex with her! Fuck, I'm going to hell!

She was wearing only two total ounces of see-through material. The entire outfit could be wadded-up in your hand. And there wasn't enough cotton in her underpants to warm a kitten. The panties were practically two tiny triangles held together with ribbons. The dress was so light that if held in your hand, you could still count every ridge and groove of your fingerprints. No bra, (I love it.) No stockings, (I love it.) No modesty or sense of decorum as she flagrantly flaunted her sensual physique like a hired escort- infront of her leering, cocked-up, tremulous son, (I love it, but the hell thing.)

And most disturbing, confusing and ultimately revealing to me, with my three whole psychology credits as my reference, was that she called me Dennis. Not just once, or twice. But atleast on three occasions that I recall. And all the while she was either tantalizing me by fondling and kneading her magnificent breasts, or tugging and rubbing my soon-to-erupt erection and promising further intimate attention. By the way, Dennis was my father's name. Who exactly was Angie talking to? Who did she see when she looked at me? This was a whole new dimension of crazy!

Moments ago, my aching cock had been excruciatingly hard and in my own mother's teasing grip. She was challenging my morals with her tits; promising some sort of kinky, Dom/Sub fantasy that she seemed eager to participate in, and intimated that there would be more to come. But she said "Daddy" and then called me by my father's name. That alone, aside from the incestuous undertones and the possible split-personality traits or mere hallucinations, should have been enough to cool my jets. But I was so lustily aroused, that given the right conditions such as pulling over to the side of the road and unbuckling the seatbelt, I could have raped her at any moment. I controlled my urgings but I was seriously intrigued.

The drive was uneventful and the dinner was seductive and secluded. Angie looked ravishing in her heels and displaying her long, toned legs. Each stride opened the slit dress to show a finely-muscled thigh and allowing anyone who looked, (and that would be every guy and most women,) to wonder if there was anything worn underneath.

In the darkened room, her long wavy hair flowed down her back and framed her face like a scandalous halo. Her brown eyes flashed to every part of the room, taking-in each man's lecherous expression as she gripped my elbow, silently signaling to all potential suiters that she had already found her man. I was walking tall with a puffed-out chest and a Cheshire Cat grin, really proud and highly bewildered. And with an obscene erection leading the way like a unicorn's horn.

Her black lace shawl served to cover her upper body and the sparkly bead-work captured every eye as they searched closely to discover what treasures were hidden beneath it. Because under the lace and behind the silk, were two shapely mounds wobbling as if almost filled with liquid and jostled by each footfall of the spiked, four-inch heels. Though they couldn't actually be discerned in the low light and dark material, the fact that they stood away from her chest nearly six inches and created a soft, jiggly shelf to cast a shadow on her lower body, every head in the place followed the tumbling orbs in the way that spectators watch a tennis ball repeatedly batted across a net. Her frontage shook seductively like Jell-o on springs.

Dinner was relatively normal though a second bottle of wine was relegated to the empty bottle graveyard. There were the occasional 80-proof lecherous grins; some slight groping though it was excused as a welcome hand on a warm thigh after a silly joke or a slightly sexual compliment. All would be perceived by prying eyes as the closeness of two adult "non-family" members engaging in some friendly foreplay.

So, accepting the two terms "relatively normal" and "non-family," with a very coarse grain of salt, let me continue this odd narrative. There were a few non-normal, non-family moments where our familiar family roles and values were stretched to their taboo limits. At the table, Angie insisted that I do the ordering, "Since you're the man, and you know what's best for me." She also asked my permission to use the ladies room and if she could or would order dessert.

At one point, her napkin slipped from her lap. She reached under the table and her hand trailed slowly and seductively all the way up my inner thigh. As her beet-red face emerged from under the tablecloth, she was giggling nervously. Her hand found my engorged tool and her sheepish grin turned to a bewitching leer. My pants were no match for her smooth, exciting ministrations. Her delicate fingers tickled my straining rod like a concert pianist. She would run her palm along my veiny shaft and then pinch the domed tip, starting and stopping my juices and producing bullets of sweat to roll down my face. I was twitching in my seat with my cock threatening to launch a full load. My squirming silence, while muttering crude oaths of surrender under my breath, in the middle of a crowded room of strangers, showed Angie that I was a willing participant in her lewd, lusty game of erotic roleplay. As of then, I still did not understand the part that I was expected to play.

She definitely understood that I was her son, and that she was coming-on to me in a public place and that we were both enjoying it, though the constraints were killing me. She wasn't shy about whispering "Daddy" into my ear, and purring that if she was a bad girl, her strong father should punish her. As for my father's name, this was still a mystery and maybe it would remain so, but it was my cock being stroked so I didn't care anymore what name she used.

Then she asked if she was behaving too much like a slut. The lump in my throat prevented any intelligible words, but I shook my head feverishly. And she followed that by reminding me that I was in-charge, and any form of discipline would be strictly adhered to. I didn't know what to make of it all, but the part that I got was great. What was not to like?

Her sultry smile and the warmness of the acres of exposed flesh, had my cock in a constant state of erection. My fantasies nearly took control of me. I could envision me sweeping my hand across the table to clear it of plates and glasses. The shattering sound would bring everyone to attention as I took her hand and flung her over the table. I would press her face into the remains of crumbs and liquid stains while hoisting her dress up her back and ripping the thin panties from her hips in one raw motion.

A chorus of cheers would begin to build as the diners saw what was about to happen. I kept one hand on the small of her back, securing her in place as she squirmed and swore. "No Petey, please not here infront of everyone. I'll do anything that you want when we get home. Please Daddy, No. I'll be a good girl, I promise. Don't make me do it here. Don't fuck me infront of them all. I'm yours Daddy, but please not now. I'm your slut. I belong to you. Anything. Everything. Whatever you want. Please take me home and fuck me."

I was just reaching for my zipper when I realized that things were still "normal." Angie's little period of temptation had had its desired effect. She looked pleased at my reaction and was now settling back to see how I would respond. I would not be throwing her on the table and giving her the fuck of her life, though I would forever be thinking about it. Now, I turned to my "date" and watched for any other signals. Her silken hair looked windblown, having been flung around with each exotic head flip and her fingers continually brushed wayward strands from her bright, clear eyes. The clingy dress was taut across her rounded chest. The twin mounds were exposed on the tops and at any moment it appeared, the two pert, perky tips that stretched the flimsy fabric, would slice through their frilly confines.

The deep immodest "V" cut of the dress held her charms precariously in place while the ponderous front porch swayed and wriggled as if alive. The deep shadowy cleavage looked inviting and her brown eyes were drawn to it as much as my own. Her hands were constantly pressing the outsides of the dress to prop them up while at the same time patting the smooth globes to keep them close and conceal the pointy nubs behind the thin material.

She wished for me to see her erotic offerings, and I believe now that she possibly would not have fought-off an attack as sternly as I had imagined. She wanted this seduction to appear sublimely decorous, but her intent was becoming more than obvious. Was she really proposing an incestuous bargain of some sort... to me? And I couldn't figure the control part. Did she expect me to take her? Did she want me to take her? Could there be any other meaning to all of this? And in her eyes, was I Dennis?... or Daddy?

She whispered to me, asking my opinion on her figure and appearance. Not like a mom and son. But if I liked what I saw. Never in my life had I imagined my mother speaking like this or using these crude terms, especially to me. "Honey," she would plaintively ask. "Do my tits look good in this dress? I want them to look desirable, but not spill over the top like a cheap tramp. I liked that bra, but it looked awful. I'll find another type. Do you think that I need a push-up? Do you like my tits, or do they sag too much? Do you think that I need implants?"

The wine was definitely having an impact, on both of us. But there could be no rational excuse for this. The rest of the conversation was a blur. Each word that I caught, at first amazed me and then sent my filthy mind into daydreams of incestuous debauchery. Finally, she said," Are you ready to take me home, Denny? I'm so happy and horny, that I just want you to take me to bed, strip me and fuck me." I was beginning to get the idea that she truly did want me, her son, to fuck her. But that the intolerable taboo of mother/son sex was haunting her inner self. By imagining or conjuring my dad's name, even though she hated him and he may not even still be alive, her mind eased the Oedipal agony that was torturing her psyche. I don't quite understand the "Daddy-thing," but I am bright enough to not talk myself out of having sex with this gorgeous, erotic MILF. She can call me whatever she likes, I'm going to fuck my mom!

My mind was reeling as I settled her into the car. Was she coming-on to me? Was she coming-on to dad? Was she beyond drunk? She said that she was horny, but for me?... Could I? Would I? Am I even allowed to touch my mom? Let alone, strip her, bed her and fuck her? Man, I wanted to!

This was a real mood-dampener. Between the taboo desire to ravish and rape my mom, and the agonizing thought of her turning over and suddenly realizing that I was not her husband, not even a blind-drunk date, but a lecherous, traitorous son who took obscene advantage of his lonely, blabby mother and ruined both of their lives. Or I could just accept the wildly erotic seductions of a horny MILF, and the jarring conclusion that it might not have been intended for me, but here I am.

On the ride home, her drunken energy peaked for only a minute. She cuddled next to me, rubbing her hand between my thighs and mentioning that this bulge throbbing under her practiced touch, is what she really wants. She allowed me to look right down the front of her dress. She even held it open so I could have counted her ribs, if I weren't distracted by the softly bouncing, seemingly jelly-filled melons. Angie wet the tips of her fingers with her serpentine tongue, smiling with that devilish look, and then pinched the reddened tips of her rubbery nips. "I know that you like when I do that. I'll do anything you want me to do, Daddy. Just tell your little girl how to please you and what you'd like me to do."

I couldn't figure out if this was some X-rated foreplay that got her juices going and leads to sex, or a semi-drunken fantasy that should have remained non-verbal. "Daddy issues" not withstanding, it was obvious that she wanted sex, and apparently liked to be dominated. The $64,000 question was: "Did any of this roleplay sex involve me?"

Again, I was benumbed. I mumbled to myself as her hand cradled the rigid lump laying uncomfortably on my thigh, and her painted nails slowly dragged from stem to stern. If her lithe fingers continued the strumming caress and slow-motion action of rounding the bulbous head and squeezing the mushroomed shaft, the warm moist spot I was feeling would quickly become a sticky, slippery lake that soaks through the cotton and runs down my leg. Angie understood just exactly what she was doing. I was only unsure if whether she fully comprehended who she was doing it to.

"You know what I want?" Angie asked in a throaty, sexy voice that mingled little girl imagination with 80-proof lust. "I want to try this." She fumbled nervously or excitedly or perhaps drunkenly, through her purse and withdrew her phone, which she expertly tuned to a movie clip. This was no ordinary Hollywood blockbuster, but I'm certain that it held her attention because from what I could see, trying to keep my concentration on the highway, was two naked people engaged in something resembling sweaty, passionate doggy-style adventure. A younger man whom she referred to as "Daddy" had just withdrawn his firm, glistening missile from the lipstick-smeared mouth of an older, slobbering woman who was on her knees with her big tits only beginning to stop slapping together.

Mom's right hand cupped her left pendulous breast, kneading the warm flesh and tweaking the pert nipple and her left hand amped-up the pressure on my straining rod, her rhythmic back and forth massage was kicked into overdrive, and the roadway was becoming a blur of lights. Out of the corner of my eye; while attempting to arrange our safe arrival in the last two minutes, and managing to avoid a traffic mishap that would have EMS workers telling tales for years, it was apparent that the man had spun the woman around, so that now I could plainly see her hungry, sordid expression and the big, wobbly tits wet with bodily fluids, facing away from her partner as he settled-in behind and between her thighs.

He pressed her pink, sweaty back forward but held her hair in his grip, so that she was nearly sprawled-out beneath him but her back was arched to leave her floppy tips hanging and her head and neck showing the anxiousness of awaiting what most assuredly would come next. Those big tits made a crudely obscene, splashing noise as they banged against each other, when her master smacked her jiggly ass and roughly spread her jittery thighs apart. The camera quickly panned to her ass just as he lined-up his erect hammer at the moist, tight, twin openings of her back door. She trembled in anticipation when his hand slid deftly up and down the slippery gap between her ass cheeks, the fingers playing at the entrance of each narrow orifice.

My mother shivered in her seat and I could see by the heaving rise and fall of her buoyant breasts that she was heavily aroused and just as anxious as the subject, to see which direction the steely rod would take. A subtle change of mere inches would excite an entirely new passion. "Daddy," she tugged on my arm, "Watch this now," as if a young girl was directing her father to an exhibit at the zoo. She directed my attention to the small screen. I was dangerously close to causing an accident, but I needed to see how this played-out. Angie's sense of impending carnal lust would be sated by this upcoming scene, which she had obviously watched many times before but must have been the erotic spark to bring her over the edge and express her deep, wanton desires.

Every night when I believed that she retired to her room to email friends and exchange cat-videos, I now believe that my mother was laying in bed, fingering her hot, wet cunt and watching scenes of serial debauchery, while re-imagining herself and some other dominant, father-type figure and hoping that maybe she could star in that kind of scene, and here we are. It was the raunchiest degree of pornography. It looked homemade and amateurish, and the "plot" was simply for the "father" to forcibly fuck and sodomize his "girl" and to bend her to his will while she became a willing participant to any and all subsequent sexual relations. My mom was moaning now, though tiredness and alcohol seemed to impact her senses, so that she was also being lulled to sleep, her eyes battled to see the well-known conclusion. I got the impression that she may have fallen asleep many times to this scene after working-up to a gigantic self-induced orgasm and falling contentedly into a blissful, though rather empty slumber.

But it was the characterization that captured my attention. This is what my mother "pointed" to. The woman didn't look anything remotely like her. That woman was a short-haired blonde with enormous tits and she was overweight. She looked ten years older than my mom and was "acting" like a teenager. The guy was not her "daddy," he was about the same age, slightly balding and with a paunch, but blessed with an outsized, purplish knob that never deflated. My mom was rapt and flagrantly plying her wares while simultaneously masturbating her son. She knew just where this clip was heading and she liked every inch of it.

I had to see where and how, he was going to insert this serpent. And since mom had definitely seen this video countless times, what form of perversity brought such a lewd look of lust to her hungry eyes. In a sleepy, slurring tone she hoarsely begged me to join her voyeuristic vision, "Okay Petey, watch now. This is when he makes her his bitch. She wants it and she needs it. But this isn't just something that she can share with any old stranger, it has to stay close like a family matter." It was starting to fall into place. Mom wanted sex. She wanted dirty, corrupted, demeaning and tawdry. Sex that would curl her toes, wet her pussy and bring hours of relief and lasting memories. But it needed to be with someone who would protect her and never reveal her inner-slut. For that, she offered her entire body and soul. "Watch Petey," her grip on my cock was firm and her voice pleading. "Her Daddy takes control and teaches her how he wants her to act." The fantasy had taken hold.

My breathing was as ragged as hers, and I pulled the car slowly to the side of the road, though only yards from home. The "climax" was about to take place and mom was mere seconds from propping her bare feet on the dashboard and plunging three hot digits into her stormy snatch, while diving headfirst into my crotch and taking my meaty trouser snake into her slutty mouth. I was excited that she used my name, and apparently understood that she was talking (and flagrantly propositioning) her son. I still don't entirely get the "Daddy" thing. But if it reliably turns her on to this degree, I was literally along for the ride.

Then the fucking video froze! The woman was on her knees sweating, the floppy tits swayed, the guy was between her legs with his monstrous cock in his hand, lubed and ready for action. He was just parting the clefts of her ass, her cheeks puffed hard and her eyes squinted shut. The tip of his ginormous organ was bullet-shaped and hovering only inches above and between the two tantalizingly tight orifices that would soon welcome or rue his inexorable advance. My desperate mother screamed like she was being boiled in oil!