The Mother and The Woman

Big Dick

I sat on my son’s bed for a long time. The computer faded into sleep mode, and the images mercifully disappeared. I felt ashamed, and angry, and betrayed.

How was I supposed to confront him about this? Should I even bring it up? I heard the front door slam shut, and suddenly, I was aware of where I was, and how angry he would be to find me in his room. His room, and especially his computer, had been “off-limits” for almost 2 years now. He wouldn’t even let me clean in here. He was sure to be enraged at the mere sight of me in his “man-cave.”

I fumbled with his computer, trying to turn it off, as he roamed the house, calling, “Mom? You home? I’m starving.”

I couldn’t find his shutdown command quick enough; I pressed down on the power button, and the screen turned black. Just in time. A second later, my son’s door flew open.

“Mom? What are you… Mom! How many times… Get out of my room,” he yelled, and threw a book against the wall.

He certainly had a temper, but I could only smirk as he marched down the hall, yelling, “I’m going to count to three, and you better be out of there…”

I sat there, half-wondering if I should talk about the images I’d just seen, half-wondering what he would do when he got to three.

“One, two, this is your last chance…”

Then, for the first time in his life, I heard my son curse.

“Three! Get out of my fucking room.”

The smirk faded from my face. I couldn’t believe my son had cursed in front of me. And, not just the word, but the tone, were infuriating. There was something in his tone that denoted disrespect: something that had been growing for many months, and was now erupting. I had noticed, increasingly, distance and aloofness in my son. It was his way of saying, “I’m a man, now.” And, it occurred to me in a flash, in all our little fights, and especially this fight, he was simply trying to say, “Mom, I’m not your baby anymore. I’m grown man.”

Just now, he wanted to make it very clear that he was man enough to defend his privacy, and use whatever word he wanted. I heard something break in the kitchen, and another string of expletives.

He stormed out of the kitchen, down the hall, toward his room, “If I have to tell you one more fucking time…”

But no matter how old he was, I couldn’t abide him speaking to me like this.

A rage, and sense of injustice swept over me. I had never laid a hand on my son, but if he had been near me, I would have slapped him.

How dare he! How dare he disrespect me! I’m sad to admit it, but what I did next, I did because I wanted to remind my son that I was in charge. I’m ashamed to admit it, but what I did next, I did to embarrass him, and make him feel like a little boy again.

“Son,” I yelled, fuming, just as he turned the corner toward his room, “Get your ass in, here! Now.”

He opened the door a little, sticking his head inside, still yelling, “Get out…”

“Come, and sit here. fetiş escort Calm down! Your mother needs to talk to you. I need to talk to you about something very serious.”

He noted the sternness in my voice, and the seriousness of my tone. I stroked a spot on the bed with my right hand, and he sat down, begrudgingly. His desk and computer sat just right of the bed. I swung round, and before he even knew what I was doing, I typed his password into the log-in screen, and his desktop lit up.

He jumped up, and growled, “Mom. What are you doing? My room? My computer. Have you been …”

Before he could utter another word, I clicked on the folder, “U.S. History.”

“That’s private! Stop!”

“I know what you did,” I said, and his face went white.

He tried to crawl over me, and turn the computer off, but I pushed it toward the wall, out of his reach, and clicked on “JO.”

“Want to explain this?” I said as I opened up a picture from the folder.

It was a photo of me, sunbathing, topless, in the backyard. I was laying on my side, in lawn chair, my head resting on a towel, my breasts shining from a mix of sweat and lotion.

I browsed the pictures one by one, leaning close to the screen, trying my best to maximize his shame.

“Oh, and this is interesting…” I said each time I clicked on a new pic.

He pleaded, “It was . . . it was … a mistake. I’m sorry. I’ll delete every one, and never do it again, I promise.”

My son walked toward the door, his head hung in shame.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered repeatedly.

As I looked at the pictures now, with him in the room, I slowly started seeing them differently than I had when I discovered them an hour earlier. I gradually saw myself through my his eyes, the eyes of a lusty, awkward, probably super horny, virile young man. Sure, I was his mom, but these were, after all, tits. He knew not to come in the backyard in the summer without first warning me, and I always thought he’d just be grossed out if he saw his 51 year old mother’s not-so-perfect double d’s. Instead, all those days, he’d been thinking of me as an object of lust. Taking, literally, 100’s, of pictures. It must have been quite a trial for him to know a topless woman was sunbathing every Saturday only 10 yards behind his home. And, then, I realized what “JO” stood for. I was slightly flattered to think I had been the source dozens of orgasms for a good looking young man.

I forgot where I was for a moment, and did not realize, my right hand was sliding, sliding down to my stomach, between my legs. I couldn’t believe it; I was growing wet. My son looked down at my hand, stunned, confused; his face turned red; his eyes dropped to the floor. I got control of myself, and swung my hand back up toward the screen. I pointed at an image of me leaning forward, my breasts suspended over a glass of tea, and chided him, “Son, this is so inappropriate. gaziantep fetiş escort So, so wrong. How could you? Your privacy? How could you violate my privacy like this. How could you take these pictures? I’m your mother! Has anyone else seen them?”

“No,” he groaned.

He turned away, and started to pace the room again; soon, he was quietly sobbing.

I looked at him, in that moment, as my little boy again. He needed his mommy.

“Come here. I won’t hurt you, son. I just want you to sit here and talk to me.”

He walked wearily towards the bed and sat down again.

I put my arm around his shoulder, and pressed him closer to me.

“Don’t cry, baby. I’m your mom, and you could never do anything to make me not love you. Can you look me in the eyes when I talk with you? What I’m about to say is important.”

He raised his glance, and looked intently into my eyes. Little tears stained his cheeks. I was struck by how innocent he still was, and then, as a contrast, how tall and strong he also was. He now stood 6’3, and his stout form seemed to swallow me up at such a close distance. I still had my arm around him; I felt the muscles in his left shoulder; I felt the hardness of his taut body against my ribs. For the first time ever, I realized, my boy had become a man. Then I felt a sudden softness in the room. It wasn’t my boy who’d been, masturbating to pictures of me; it was this, this, man. This man, handsome enough to have any girl, and he’d chosen to look at me. Me?!

I gazed over his rippling arms, and strong thighs, and gorgeous face; the mommy in me gave in, for a moment, to the woman in me. In that moment, all I could see before me was a mass of virulent manhood. I wanted him, this man. I found my anger – and secret lusts built up over years of being sexually frustrated – and motherly instincts – all colliding, meshing into a torrent of desire that drew me toward him with an unstoppable compulsion. I hugged him tighter.

“I’ll never be able to look you in the eyes again,” he said, standing, and walking toward the door.

“Why not?” I asked.

He acted like he was going to leave. I couldn’t bear for him to march off in such a state of shame.

“Wait, son,” I called.

He turned to face me, still unable to look me in the eyes. I didn’t know what to say next, but I was desperate to lighten the mood, and minimize the awkwardness: to somehow indicate that this really wasn’t a big deal, and we’d get past it. So, I offered the first joke that came mind.

I said, snickering, “Really? JO? Is this your Jerk Off folder? Don’t you know there’s a place called the internet where you can get pictures of young beautiful women in great shape. You don’t have to look at pictures of your old saggy mom.”

His eyes became earnest, and his face very serious, “There is no woman more beautiful than you, mom.”

Those words fully gaziantep fetiş escort awakened the woman in me; I felt, between my already warm thighs, a sensation like an electrical shock. The room spun, and I grew dizzy. I had to close my eyes to regain my composure. Almost a minute passed before I could move. When I opened my eyes, they were level with my son’s waist, and I could see there, in his jeans, a growing erection.

“Run,” a voice screamed inside my head, “Run while you can!” But, I was glued to the bed, weakened by the soft, but roaring, heat in the room. The electric shocks between my legs began to pulsate, and I observed my hand reaching forward, absently to touch him “there.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the bulge in his pants; his eyes looked down, then back up at me. I tried to look away, but couldn’t. He looked down at his crotch, then back up at me. It had been so long since I had been with a man, any man, so long since I had tasted a man.

“Stop,” I yelled, internally, and forced my hand into my pocket.

My son traced the line of vision from my eyes to his cock. I still couldn’t look away.

“Mom,” he whispered, soft, but with deep base inflections, and the passion and manliness in his voice bounced off the walls, and then danced on my clitoris. The electric shocks turned more violent, more rapid, and reverberated to the tips of my toes. And I came.

I was shaking, trying to suppress the waves of pleasure rocking my body.

“Mom,” he said, taking a step toward me, moving one hand to his zipper.

“Mom, are you looking at my…”

I wanted to tell him not to speak to me like that, in such a sexual tone, but I could barely breathe. And, I couldn’t focus on words, because I couldn’t take my eyes off his crotch. His hard-on was outlined against his jeans like a work of art. I tried to stand, but faltered. I fell back on the bed. I came again.

“Oh, my…” I gasped.

His long strong legs reached me in just two steps. He unzipped his jeans gently, deliberately, but he was clearly nervous and unsure of what he was doing.

His pants slid gracefully down his body, and fell at my feet, just as I mustered my last ounce of strength. Enough strength, finally, to look away. I slid forward on his bed, and whispered, “Son, really, I don’t think so. First, the pictures, now this?”

He didn’t protest. He didn’t move to block me. Instead, in a manner both tender and manly, he ran his right hand into my hair, then took a handful of my long brown hair, held me in place. He tried ot turn my head toward his body, and his manhood brushed my hair. I resisted, still refusing to look at his naked body.

“I can’t,” I sighed weakly.

“Stay,” he said, as a plea, full of desperation and need, but also a command, full of authority and confidence.

I turned, and looked up; his piercing eyes were gazing on me with such longing; I felt like a real woman again. I felt so wanted, and I wanted him, this man, more than I had ever wanted any other man.

I traced my eyes slowly down his body. Down, past his collar. Down, past his shirt pocket. Down, counting each button on his shirt as I went. Down, finally, until I saw bare skin. Down, to his belly button.

“Mom?” he whispered, moving toward my mouth.

“Yes baby,” I answered.

Bir yanıt yazın

E-posta adresiniz yayınlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir