Making Mom

This tale of my incestuous relationship with my mother differs in two ways from most incest stories on this site. First, this story is true. Whether the reader chooses to believe it isn't my concern. Secondly, mine is not a tale of some teenager with a monster (?) cock and a mother who swoons as soon as she sees it. Rather, this is the account of how I seduced my mother when I was 32, married with two kids, and mom was 49. She was the mother of three—myself, the oldest, and my brother and sister, then ages 29 and 27.

I fucked my mother for nineteen years, until she died unexpectedly in her sleep at age 68. Somehow, we managed to keep it a secret (or so we thought) during that entire time. We couldn't fuck often, but when we did, it was heaven for both of us—something which never grew routine, something we both looked forward to.

But I need to start at the beginning.

My mother became pregnant with me when she was only seventeen, married my father and had a good marriage with him until he simply dropped dead at work when I was a mere lad of six. After all these years, I recall him only somewhat vaguely. What I do remember clearly is crying my heart out, sitting on my mother's lap after he died, my face buried in her ample bosom. I never got her fragrance and the softness of those tits out of my mind. I also remember being insanely jealous of my newly-borne sister enjoying the pleasure of breast feeding at the time. I so much wanted to be able to suck on those tits too, to have my mother coo over me. The last time I was to see her tits until much later in life was the day I pushed my sucking sister's head aside and clamped my mouth on mom's tit. She gasped but did let me nurse for a minute before gently pulling her nipple from my mouth, telling me I couldn't do that.

She was careful not to let me see her breastfeeding again. But the rapturous feeling of sucking on that tit never left me. Maybe that's what drove me to desire her so over the years.

Susan (my mother's name) did have nice breasts—she eventually told me they were 32C-as well as the nice body to go with them. Always the athletic type, she kept more or less trim during her lifetime. Perhaps because of her small-boned body and lack of height—she was maybe all of 5'6"—that she never weighed over 110 pounds. I already towered over her well before I entered my teens. Her hair was thick, a shiny, dark chestnut brown and semi-curly, giving rise to my constant teen-age fantasy that her cunt hair had to be of the same luxuriant growth.

After the death of my father, my mother had to take a job clerking at a clothing store just to keep food on the table. Things were really tight financially and we managed to scrape by only because my mother's aunt baby-sat the three of us kids for nothing when my mother was working. Mom's in-laws helped her with groceries and added to our meager wardrobes on birthdays and at Christmas. We were stuck in a revolving door going nowhere. We kept going nowhere until I was sixteen.

That's when Halston, or Hal as everybody called him, entered the picture. He was a jerk, a philanderer, a cheat, and most likely a crook as well. But Hal had money. I guess he too was taken by my mother's ready smile and her thirty-four-year-old inviting body. He wined her and dined her. His attention to her was unrelenting. Eventually, Mom apparently gave into the idea that Hal wasn't so bad and that he at least provided an avenue to escape a life of poverty. So even though he was twenty-two years her senior and had a reputation for chasing women, mom threw in the towel and married the bastard.

I hated him from the word go. The worst part was having to listen to their bed rocking late at night. I knew he was fucking my mother and the thought of his cock inside her intensified my hatred. The worst part was when the sound of the squeaking bed intensified, followed by Hal's inevitable grunting, a signal that he had emptied another load into her body.

But to keep the peace, I tried to be civil. I think the reason he gave me a go-fer job at his office had as much to do with buying my civility as much as a desire to provide me with spending money. But the civility ended about six months into their marriage when I walked without knocking into his secretary's office late one afternoon. I had merely come to empty the wastebaskets, part of my job. I thought everyone had gone home. But there he was, standing behind her, bent over her seated form, her blouse half unbuttoned, his hands hidden in her bra, massaging her tits.

I froze when I saw them. Tess, his secretary, tried to stand but he just pushed her back into the chair, his hands still clamped on her massive cones.

"Hal, for God sakes stop it," she squeaked, her face beet red.

So it's "Hal," and not Mr. ___ when they are alone, was my thought. I was frozen in my tracks trying to comprehend what I was seeing.

"Come here, you little bastard," barked Hal. "Anyone ever taught you to knock? You like to look at tits, don't you? I've seen you looking at your mothers. Well here. Look at these," as he unsnapped Tess'es front-closure bra and squeezed her tits together, her nipples erect, either from his earlier efforts or from embarrassment. "Don't these beat what you mom has," he leered at me.

Now I wanted to kill him. I ran to grab him. Tess screamed. And just as I reached for his throat, he gave me a knee in the groin, catching me in both balls. I dropped to the floor writhing in agony.

"You better keep your fucking mouth shut too," was his response as he grabbed my hair and viciously slammed my head onto the floor. "Good for nothing little cocksucker."

When I regained my senses, Hal was gone, Tess bent over me, asking if I was okay. Her tits practically hung in my face but I wasn't interested. I thought I would die from the pain. I think Tess actually feared I might die. I just clutched my balls and moaned. Eventually, she helped me into her chair and only then, reassured my life seemed to be out of danger, started to stuff herself back into her clothing.

"Please don't tell anyone," she begged. "My husband would kill me if he found out. And I don't think your mom would be too happy either. Please, Ben...."

I just started shuffling towards the door and didn't look back. When I finally got home, Hal was there. He listened to me tell my mother that I had a gut ache and was going to lie down. I never went back to the job. I hardly ever spoke to him again. But from then on, I always knew what he had been doing those nights when he came home late from work....

The years went by. I left home, did the college thing, got married, had two kids. My wife, Cathy, was from the neighboring town. "Blond," smallish bust, conservative. Her breasts were 32 Cs, with nice nipples but much paler than I remembered my mother's dark, areolas. Her hair was a brown-dyed-blond and as thick as my mother's, maybe that was one reason I found her so attractive. Cathy was a great mother and wife. With an outgoing personality and winsome smile, she was a favorite at social gatherings. But she wasn't my mother, the woman I had always secretly wanted to marry.

Cathy didn't like oral. She would suck my cock on "special occasions" even though I could tell she didn't like doing it. She made sure to quit sucking long before I could cum in her mouth. She cared even less for the rare occasions when she would let me eat her pussy, tensed up, and tried to get me to stop before I really got started. And I loved oral, the taste of female secretions like honey to me. Anal was out of the question, but it wasn't something I was really in to, just something I wanted to try. One time—and one time only—I managed to get the head of my cock in her ass before she pulled away as though I had stuck her with a red hot iron. Language? She refused to call her organs cunt or pussy. She cringed when I called her a cocksucker when that was what she was doing. The only word she thought proper to use was "fuck," and I think she used that only because she knew it turned me on when she kept "begging" me to fuck her when I was buried in her cunt.

Otherwise, like I said, a good wife and mother. But the woman I really dreamed of fucking was the one whose tit I had sucked way back when. I often fantasized it was she urging me to fuck her when I was pounding Cathy's pussy, that it was my mother's tits I was nuzzling....

Perhaps I should insert here a description of how Cathy's and my sex life progressed. After the kids were born, she essentially lost the little interest she had in doing anything erotic. Using typical male reasoning, I thought that if she could see others fucking, she might turn on to the idea. So I bought a porno video which showed all the possibilities. We often watched a "normal" tape when the kids were away at grandma's or attending a sleepover. I prepared for what I hoped would be a hot night of unbridled sex by reserving a table at the usual expensive restaurant, opening a second bottle of her favorite wine at home, using low level lighting to set the mood. After putting on our pajamas and robes, we sat on the couch together and I started the video playing. It took her only a few minutes to determine that this was not a Walt Disney production. She started crying, and stormed from the room. Needless to say, when I joined her in bed later, the cold shoulder she presented only added to the chill of an atmosphere which lasted for days.

Maybe three weeks later, I tried again, practically begging her to at least try watching and reassuring her that it wasn't the porno actresses whose bodies I wanted, but hers. To my surprise and delight, she watched almost the entire production and (although she would never admit to it) I found obvious signs that she was turned on by what she was watching. I waited until well into the video before I began to caress her breasts. Her nipples were already rock hard. When I caressed her crotch, her pussy was already wet. We never finished the video that night. I eventually switched off the TV, led her into the bedroom, and did enjoy a good fuck. She even let me eat her pussy for several minutes.

It eventually became a routine, even though, with two kids, the opportunities were limited. Nice meal, glass or two of wine, hot shower, video. She—without fail—was much more open to sex on those evenings. While watching the videos, I took note of when she was getting into it, then—when I began fondling her breasts—directed her hand to her pussy, where eventually she began masturbating. I think she hoped I wouldn't notice. I guess frigging herself was not in the scheme of what she thought a proper lady would do. She especially seemed excited (in her quiet way) by lesbian scenes or those of some big-cocked black stud having his way with a white woman. Later, when we made love I often tried to get her to close her eyes and fantasize that it was a black cock that was going to cum in her pussy, something which always seemed to get her a bit hotter, to fuck a bit harder, although she adamantly denied she would ever want to be fucked by a black man. Although the videos didn't turn her into the sexual partner I wanted her to be, but they did mark an improvement.

So, anyway. Back to the story.

Eventually, Hal got sick and died. God knows how many different women he had fucked while married to my mother. When he finally did die, not even my mother really cared anymore. I guess she too had long since figured out why he worked so late so often at the office and took so many out-of-town overnight business trips.

When my magical day arrived, it was so much easier than I had ever thought.

Several months after Hal's death, mother had asked me if I might make the 180 mile journey to her place in order to help sort through everything that her former pack-rat husband had collected during the years they were together. It was a job that needed to be done so I agreed to devote a three-day weekend to the effort, arriving late Friday night. She seemed a new woman. The years of putting up with Hal's cheating were over. She was free again, but this time with plenty of money to live on. We talked late into the night. When we finally turned in, I held her tight, kissed her gently on the neck and told her I never wanted to let go. My cock was beginning to harden just from holding her. Whether she noticed or not, I didn't know. She gave me a squeeze, a peck on the cheek, and a whispered "Good night, Ben."

On Saturday, we got an early start. Our mission: clean the huge garage, piled high with everything under the sun, including countless boxes of business records. It was a blisteringly hot July day. We grunted and groaned and sweated. Although I tried to concentrate on the task at hand, I was also distracted by the nearness of mom's body. Her shorts showed off her tanned thighs quite nicely; her sleeveless T gave me glimpses of her bra and made me wish I could see the treasures it held. I was rewarded by occasional inadvertent tit rubs when we would work together to pull boxes from the overhead shelving. For me, those touches were bliss. From time to time, we sat in front of a high speed fan to cool off. Each time, as the air evaporated our sweat, I could see her nipples getting hard. It was a maddeningly erotic sight.

We finally called it a day in the early evening. Mom was already complaining of a lower backache from all the lifting. We were tired, sweaty, and starved. We celebrated our efforts with a gin and tonic (heavy on the gin), then I agreed to grill steaks while mom made a salad. The food hit the spot as did the second drink we had with it. She declined a third.

Mom was already getting more than a bit punchy as she normally doesn't drink much or often. When she gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, I could feel her tits innocently mashing against my chest. I had to have this woman I had always desired.

I suggested we grab a shower, watch a video to relax, and then I would give her one of my "world famous" backrubs. Sounded good to her. I had brought a variety of videos with me from my collection. The one I carefully chose was suggestive without being pornographic. I knew she would never go for that—at least not at this stage. This flick featured several scenes of passionate kissing, heavy breathing, and the two stars winding up in bed together doing more of the same until they turned out the lights. It actually had a storyline and featured an uplifting ending. An innocent enough selection, but one which I calculated would further my ultimate purpose. I prayed it would get her motor running so as to be more receptive to what I hoped would follow.

To complete the preparations, I opened a bottle of champagne and made sure her glass was never empty. Before the movie was over, we were on our second bottle. Mom was quickly becoming drunk. During the more passionate scenes, I noticed she was breathing more rapidly and was squirming ever so slightly. She also would take another big gulp of champagne each time things got hot. I was positive she had had no sexual stimulation for some time, unless she was doing herself. That is, of course, something one can never tell, but I chose to doubt it. I just sat next to her on the couch, our legs and feet touching as we shared the footstool, my arm around her, my hand gently stroking her upper arm. The light blanket we shared to protect us from the coolness of the air-conditioned room added to the sense of intimacy.

When the movie ended, she announced with a yawn that she had to turn in before she passed out. I reminded her of the backrub and insisted she had to have one if we were going to continue working tomorrow. Although she protested that she was too tired, she finally relented. I told her to go lay on her bed. I would get a large towel and my oil. She was weaving as she made her way into the bedroom, now and then touching the wall for guidance and support.

When I entered her room with yet another glass of champagne for her, she was lying on her stomach under the glare of the ceiling light, fully clothed in her robe and nightgown. I turned her table lamp on low, killed the overhead light, and informed her that the oil wasn't going to work too well with her robe on. At first she was adamant about keeping it on. But as I straddled her upper legs and slowly started to kneed her shoulder muscles, I gently convinced her to remove the robe.

She finally agreed, but not before asking me to look away. I told her the nightgown would have to go too, at least from her waist up, but she could cover with the beach towel. She paused at that suggestion, turned her head, and just looked at me with her big blue eyes. Even though she was dead drunk, I wondered if she was beginning to become suspicious. Had she felt my cock the night before? Were warning signals flashing in her brain? I saw my opportunity evaporating. I needed her cooperation to get started. Rape was not an option. This was my mother. What I wanted from her is what I hoped she would want from me.

Then she surprised me. She again asked me to look away. I climbed off her legs and busied myself by studying the wallpaper. She did as I had suggested, somehow slipping her shoulders out of her gown, lowering it around her waist. When she told me she was ready, I turned to find her again on her stomach, covered to her neck with the towel. I offered her another sip of champagne and as she reached for the glass, the towel began to slip from her shoulders giving me a partial glimpse of those wonderful tits I had always longed to see, to feel, to suck. Her thinking was getting more clouded by the minute. Normally, she would have been more careful to ensure that she had covered herself.

I began to massage just her upper back and shoulders with oil. It didn't take long before she was purring, she said it felt so good. I used my movements to ever so slowly and innocently work the towel lower. Five minutes later she was exposed from the waist up. As she lay on her stomach, beginning to fall asleep, I could see her tits pushing out to the side.

I finally pulled the towel (and her bunched up nightgown) beyond the swell of her hips, half way down her butt. She stiffened for a minute until I assured her that I just wanted to work her lower back and didn't want oil on her gown. Massaging her hips from her spine outward, downward to the bed was a massive turn-on. My cock was more than ready, pushing out against my pajamas and I knew my pre-cum was beginning to flow. I hoped hers was too. She was beginning to breath more rapidly.

Finally, I again worked my way up her back, working in ever larger circles. My path quickly included her rib slats, my fingertips just touching the side fat of her tits. Her respirations increased in speed and intensity. She cleared her throat and suggested that maybe it was time to stop. It was a critical moment.

Time to go for broke.

"Mom," I said, my voice cracking with passion. "You haven't had any physical attention from Hal for a long time, have you."

The seconds passed slowly before she found her voice. "No, I haven't, but that's because he was sick for so long and because ...." her voice trailed off.

I asked her if what I was doing felt good as I continued to work her sides, including the sides of her tits. She simply nodded and raised herself unsteadily to take another sip of champagne. As she lowered herself again to the bed, I slipped my hands down to cup her tits, my thumb and index finger seeking out and quickly squeezing her already erect nipples.

She, perhaps understandably, freaked. Forgetting she was bare from the waist up, she rolled onto her back, sat up, and pulled the towel up to her neck. I got my first full look at her tits, capped with dark brown nipples that seemed a half inch long.