Velvet Ch. 03byErnest Hemingsex©
The conclusion of a mother-son love fantasy, submitted on Mother's Day 2005. :)
WARNING: If you are not 18 or older, please leave this page immediately.
Incest—a word that has extreme negative connotations. The image that most often comes about when the word is mentioned is that of a father forcing himself on his daughter. Any forcible sex act, especially done by a parent to a child, should result in the parent being punished in legal and non-legal ways.
This is a fantasy of consensual incest between adults. It is intended for adults who are interested in reading about consensual sex between relatives. If this offends you, do not continue any further.
The dreams of making love to my ex girlfriend turning into my mother soon were pushed aside by pure exhaustion. I was working on the average 11 hours a day at my job; I wanted to be general manager. I would return home late, shower and crash. I couldn't dream about my ex blonde lover, my mother, or anyone else; I was just too tired. But it paid off: the owner of the company soon made me general manager. It was a Friday afternoon when my promotion was announced; it would officially begin the following Monday. I was ecstatic. I wanted to celebrate, and there was only one woman I wanted to celebrate with: my mother, Joan.
"You got the promotion?!" she squealed when I called her on my cell at lunch time. "Oh, Paul, I am so proud of you!"
"Thanks, Mom. Let's celebrate tonight. Dinner and dancing?"
"How could I refuse? And with New York's newest, best, and most handsome general manager? Why of course."
"Aw, thanks again," I humbly replied.
"What thanks?" Mom asked. "I could never say no to you, sweetheart."
I froze for a second when she said that. My mind took a dip into the gutter and I briefly recalled my erotic dreams about my mother. I quickly rebounded: "I'll pick you up at 8. I'll make reservations at Café Café, that new place near Lincoln Center."
"Sounds wonderful. See you tonight. Congratulations, again, honey." She blew me a kiss and hung up.
It was a couple of minutes shy of 8 PM when I pulled my deep purple Mercedes up to Mom's apartment. I turned off the ignition figuring I would have to wait a bit. Maybe three minutes passed when the building door opened and out bounded my mother. I was in the middle of turning my head catching the passing bus' movie ad when my head snapped in the direction of the apartment building. My face must have been like Jim Carrey's in The Mask when he saw Cameron Diaz—eyes popping out, like big like saucers, and my jaw dropping. Mom was hot and gorgeous all rolled into one! She had on a smile which was dazzling. Her raven colored hair was dolled up like the English actresses from that famous night-time soap opera in the late 70s. Mom always bore a slight resemblance to the actress but now could pass for her twin.
She wore a tight black silk dress; it was tight like the skin on a grape. It accented her luscious swaying hips as she strutted—not walked—toward my car. Her strut and the low wide cut of the dress offered me a panoramic view of her cleavage and made her large breasts bounce. Man! did they bounce, like two cats trying to free themselves of a confinement. It appeared her nipples were in the initial stage of getting hard. It also appeared that she was not wearing a bra. While my eyes were getting visually overloaded, my ears caught the sound of her feet clicking on the sidewalk. She wore shiny black stilettos, thus completing the picture of this walking wet dream approaching my car.
As her hand reached for the car's outside door handle, my manners belatedly kicked in taking me out of my stupor and I motioned for the inside handle. She had already opened the door and motioned into the seat. As she sat, the mid-thigh slit of her dress parted and presented me with a pair of bare and sexy legs. And like several months ago when she was slow in responding to me seeing her in just a towel, she took her time in getting in the car, closing the door, and fixing her seated position. I was treated to seeing way up my mother's dress, her well-toned thighs briefly but lewdly parted. The top of the dress slit prevented me from actually seeing between my mother's legs. It was just as well. If I had seen her panties, I probably would have had a heart attack after all this visual stimulation. She leaned forward, offering me an open-close view of her copious cleavage. Her breasts jiggled again. Her brown eyes sparkled and her smile, just a few inches away from my face, was even more dazzling up close.
"Hi," she greeted, and then kissed me lightly on the lips. I smelled her favorite perfume, Dolce & Gabbana.
"Hi, Mom. Wow, you look great!"
She beamed, with a typical mother's pride, "I am so proud of you!"
"Thank you, Mom." I popped the car into Drive and pulled away from the street.
We found a parking lot a block and a half away from the restaurant. Café Café was actually a restaurant and jazz club with a medium-sized dance floor. After handing the attendant my keys, Mom and I walked up the ramp to the street. We got to the corner and waited for the light to turn green so we could cross. She slipped her hand into my mine, gave a loving squeeze, and interlocked her fingers with me. I looked at her and Mom flashed those pearly whites. I returned the smile. As we crossed Columbus Ave, I felt like Leonardo DiCaprio when he exclaimed in Titanic, "I'm the king of the world!"
When we entered Café Café I mused to myself as the maitre de did a quick double-take at the beautiful woman by my side. "Good evening. Mr. and Mrs. Covington," I announced. I had made the reservation this partially as a joke. Mom shot a glance at me with a grin. "Right this way," he directed. We followed him, my mother leaning into my ear. "Honey, don't forget to take out the trash when we get home," she joked. I chuckled.
The place was already packed and walking toward our table required serious navigation between the numerous tables and people. The maitre de, leading us, stopped to let a waiter with a large platter of food pass by. Mom had stopped a couple of feet behind him. I just had wedged between two tables and had started walking a little faster when I bumped into Mom. My crotch, unhindered by my open navy suit jacket, hit her ass.
"Oops, sorry, M--." I did not finish the word. I was, though, genuinely sorry I bunked into her.
Without turning around she replied, "No problem, babe." My suit pants were now pressed against Mom's ass, the tightness of her skirt stretching across her buttocks and providing me with such a velvety sensation. My crotch was against the part of her ass crack below the waist. I could feel the firmness of the beautiful ass literally before me. Mom either didn't notice our "connection" or didn't care. My penis, which was starting to receive blood, if fully erect and without clothes, could easily glide up and down the curved crevice of my mother's bottom. The contact between crotch and crevice was only for three seconds—the waiter had passed by and the maitre de continued our procession toward the empty table—but it felt joyously longer.
We took our seats at a table for two, sitting opposite each other. The table was a comfortable distance from the band, which was in the middle of a Miles Davis number. The atmosphere was festive, and I knew the food was good from having taken several perspective clients here for dinner. It was where I wanted to be, with the woman I wanted to be with. We ordered, me going for filet mignon and Mom selecting lamb chops. After the waiter left, we looked deeply into each other's eyes. Nothing was said, yet so much was "said." We loved each other like any other mother and son, but we were drifting past that. We were and had been communicating an emotion reserved usually for non-relatives. So many scenes between us flashed in my mind: her caring for me as a child, often like a grizzly mom protecting her cub; her applauding childhood successes like me wining a baseball game; my holding her countless times during her divorce while she wailed a river; her on numerous occasions telling me she decided I had enough to drink and taking away the gin bottle during my own divorce proceedings; the infamous towel episode; the glee in her voice when I told her about the job promotion; and they way she looked just a few minutes ago coming out of her apartment. I laid my right hand, palm up, on the table. She separated her hands which were locked together under her chin and laid her left hand into my mine. This time I was the one squeezing our hands.
After the appetizers, we feasted on the main course. We also "went to town" on the red wine I opted for. Mom had one more glass of California Merlot than me.
"A toast ... to my favorite general manager," Mom offered smilingly, with glass raised.
I clinked my glass to hers. "Thank you, so much."
Our stomachs were full, as were our hearts. A little while after we finished our dinner, the lights were lowered and the band started a slow Billie Holiday song. Mom loved Billie Holiday. I stood up, very slightly tipping to the side thanks to the Merlot, and with hand extended offered, "May I have this dance, my lady?" Mom was taken back at the gesture. Once again our eyes were locked together, though hers seemed to get immediately misty. Also her lips quivered, as if she was on the verge of crying. Her lips turned into a smile and she answered with a hoarse "yes." I escorted her by hand to the opposite corner which was less crowded. I took her in my arms, with her head resting against my upper chest and her eyes soon closed. I relished as her soft breathing was above my heart. We looked more like a prom king and queen dancing to a romantic tune. I quickly and devilishly thought to myself of all the coronaries the other people in the restaurant would have if they knew who we really were. We were mother and son, dancing slowly to a seductive song...and to hell with what others would think!
The swaying of our bodies, the copious amounts of wine, the lack of sex and intimacy for the past several months, how hot Mom looked and how wonderfully warm she felt in my arms was all having an effect on me in two places. One was my heart; I felt an emotional connection with a woman I never had before. The other place where all this was effecting me was my crotch. It was moving sensually against my mother's crotch as I led with my right hand and my left was firmly against her narrow waist. My cock was getting hard...fast. The more I slowly moved to the music against the skirt portion of Mom's dress, the more blood rushed to the area. My head, which had been in a dreaming state like hers, snapped up like being awakened by an alarm clock: I now had a full erection slow dancing with my mother. Just like our other "close encounter" that evening, Mom seemed to not care. I cannot say she did not notice now. She had to, both as my cock was hardening against her and now that it was at its full 7 ½ inches. Yet despite my sudden head motion—both the top head and the bottom one—Joan, my mother, did not break stride in her dancing.
I was mortified. I lowered my lips to her right ear. "Mom, I'm sorry." She didn't say or do anything. She just kept swaying to the song.
I tried again to apologize. "Mom, I—" She raised her head from my chest her, released her left hand from mine, forming it into a Number One and placed the finger against my lips, shutting off my apology. She looked at me with half-open eyes.
"I am very flattered my own son is sexually aroused by the touch of my body," she whispered. Then Mom positioned her mouth next to my left ear and softly confessed, "I am very wet." The tip of her tongue trailed along my ear lobe, and she pushed her crotch against my raging hard-on.
It was as if my mind was hooked up to an electric chair and the warden pulled the lever: I get a massive boner dancing with my good-looking mother and instead of being shocked or outraged, she is just as turned on! Forget the other people having coronaries, I was about to have one. Her admission opened a mental flood gate of the illicit nature of what we were doing, and what we were probably going to do. Mother and son...sexually excited by each other slow dancing in a Manhattan restaurant...it was so taboo! Speaking of taboo, I immediately recalled the X-rated movie, Taboo, about consensual mother-son incest. At the moment I realized something: I was never more sexually aroused in my life as I was now!
It seemed now Mom was at last free to physically express herself with me. She led me further into the corner of the dance floor. There was less light here and less people. She slowly but confidently pushed her crotch against my erection. She did again...and again, in a wave-after-wave cycle of increasing lust. I met her stroke for stroke, my cock having just been permission to continue its movement against Mom's skirt-covered cunt. It was a balancing act for us: wanting to enjoy our just-begun incestuous dry-humping and yet not be obvious to the other dancers. Mom turned us so we were visually on an angle to the other folks on the floor, and then she planted her lips against me. Our lips were locked, initially in an emotional kiss that caring lovers share. Then lips opened and our tongues began to wrestle with each other. But the tongue dueling did not last long, as she broke the kiss and pushed herself even more into me. She crushed her bountiful breasts, nipples erect, against my chest.
"Don't stop, baby," she panted in my ear. "Don't stop."
Her gyrations now were more urgent. Over and over again she threw her crotch against mine. And I responded in kind. The hand that I had on her waist I slipped under her dress and cupped Mom's right buttock. It was tight, smooth, and virtually bear—my mother was wearing a thong!
I grunted, "Uh," as my hand squeezed that cheek several times. I re-positioned the hand so the finger tips slipped into her crack and grazed the panty material. Mom was wet...soaking wet. Right after my fingers touched her thong, she slammed herself into me, this time with such authority.
"Yes! Yes!" she hissed into my ear. Joan, my mother, was riding the crest of a long-over due orgasm. She tilted her head against my shoulder. Her eyes were shut, and her lips were plastered together, stifling her desired scream of ecstasy. As her body below the waist continued shaking and her juices seeped through the thong onto the front of her dress, Mom's hard nipples were grazing me all over my shirt and suit jacket.
I was extremely attempted to join her in taking the "dry" out of our dry-humping. I would not be embarrassed by coming in my pants. They were dark and would not reveal my emission. I ejaculated in my pants one time before during a lap dance at a strip club. Actually I'd now be more concerned with walking off the dance floor with my slacks still tented.
Mom's breathing, which had enjoyably serenaded my ear and been heavy sounding like a Lamaze class, soon tapered off. Our grinding also had dissipated. Now we were just holding each other. We stood supporting each other, my hands around her waist and her hands around my neck.
"It's dripping down my leg," she informed me. "Can we get out of here, please?" she asked between lingering heavy breathes.
"Absolutely," I answered. My dick had started going down but a chubby could still be seen within the front of my pants. I guess this was the lesser of two "evils"—mom's cum-coated legs taking First Place. I was so relieved the next song from the band was another slow tune which meant the lights would remain low so Mom and I could exit the dance floor as inconspicuously as possible.
My head felt like a whirlwind. Everything between the dance floor and when we were in my car heading to The Pierre hotel was a blur. I could, though, recall "snapshots": hurriedly calling the waiter for the check, Mom and me holding hands sprinting across the street and down the parking lot ramp, and me rapidly giving the attendant the ticket. I entered the car first and as Mom got in, the light from one of the lot's overhead lamps came through the windshield and fell onto her legs. They glistened with her juices from under her dress to almost mid-thigh. The chubby in my pants lurched forward. Mom shutting the door broke my brief stare at her legs. She looked at me.
"Are you alright with this?" she inquired.
Right after the word "this" left her mouth, I responded, "Absolutely."
She moved toward me and kissed me on the mouth. It wasn't a wild, wet kiss but definitely not one a mother usually gives her son. Her right hand touched the left side of my face briefly while our lips were connected. As we broke off the kiss, her hand dropped down to my crotch and in one motion slipped it up and down along the contour of my pants-covered erection.
"Good," she commented softly, "because so am I."
I hung a left when we got street level and headed for The Pierre. I had been staying at the hotel the last two nights because of my late hours at the job. I had opted to bring clothes and stay there for the remaining of the week leading to my promotion. I figured it was much better than driving back home to northern Westchester at 1 in the morning only to have to return by 8 AM. As my first perk at being general manager the company owner, who had been paying for my stay at The Pierre, said I could remain there for the weekend if I desired. I glanced at my hot mother, nipples still erect and legs parted, and thought of the owner's offer—I definitely desired the hotel for the weekend.
We stopped at a red light and I got the first whiff of my mother's orgasm. My hard-on lurched forward, wanting to be like The Hulk and break free of the confines of my pants. We crawled in the evening Manhattan traffic to the next light, by which time the inside of my Mercedes smelled like a whorehouse during New York's Fleet Week.
Fifteen minutes later we were at the hotel. I parked the car in the hotel's underground garage and we shot up to my room. As soon as I locked the door Joan, my mother, and I were back in each other's arms. We now had the necessary privacy needed for this special moment—a mutually desired incestuous union between mother and son—to really begin. Our lips were locked together with our heads swaying in circles. Our lips soon unlocked themselves to allow our tongues to meet, slipping around each other and darting back and forth in our mouths. Our hands were briefly running up and down our bodies, pausing to repeatedly caress our buttocks. The fingers now started reaching for clothes to remove. I unbuttoned my jacket and Mom pushed it off my shoulders; the jacket was the first item of clothing on the floor. I went for the zipper on the back of Mom's dress but she stepped back. Hungrily she said, "I'll take care of this," and replaced my hands with hers at the zipper, "you get your shirt and tie off." I loosened the tie knot enough to slip it over my head and toss it across the room. I started unbuttoning the shirt from the top and heard the zipper of Mom's dress get pulled down. I stopped my disrobing so I could watch and take in this scorching sight: my mother taking her clothes off her me. She kept her eyes on mine, her mouth shaped in a sexy grin. She pulled the top portion of her dress off her shoulders and with a few more motions, I watched with my mouth wide open as Mom's dress quickly cascaded down her body to become a pile around her high heels. My beautiful mother stood before me in naked glory except for her thong and heels, hands at her sides. Her breasts were truly magnificent: definitely 36s, with a slight sag, puffy areolas and nipples sticking out at me like two pink Hershey kisses. Her waist would be the envy of 20-and 30-something women. Her hips flared out, a great sign of her seductive maturity. Her legs were long, shapely, with the calves well-toned; I could clearly see the slickness on her thighs. What was between those legs was flimsily covered by her soaked panties. The thong was pearl white, which nicely offset against her slightly tanned body, and appeared matted against her pubic region. Her shiny black stilettos were the cherry-on-the-top for this erotic sight.