Mommys Favorite Valentine Is Me

This is a Valentine's Day contest story. Please vote.

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Mother and son have a special relationship that transcends incest.

Today is Valentine's Day, my birthday and a special day for not only me but also for the love of my life, my mother. As a special, personal gift, my Mom celebrates my birthday by giving me whatever I want sexually. A fantasy that so many men have of having sex with their mothers, in reality, I have sex with my mother nearly every day.

Most other men and women, for that matter, wouldn't understand, but that's their problem. They'd think what we did behind closed doors was nasty. Yet, maybe after you read this story and learn the details of our lives, you'll have a different opinion of us.

"What would you like me to do this year for your birthday, Valentine?"

"Let's do something different. Let's do some roll playing. We can drive to a bar out of town and pretend you're someone's wife. I'll pick you up and buy you a few drinks. Then, we can dance on the dance floor, and with everyone watching, while I can touch you in places they'd love to touch you. Later, I'll bring you home and we'll have hot sex, as if we're having it for the first time. I'll call you Marsha and you can call me Steve."

"I like that idea. That sounds like fun. Should I dress as a hooker or as a housewife?"

I knew my Mom would be up for the challenge. She's still young at heart. We do the same for her birthday, too, playing out whatever sexual fantasy she wants to experience. She's a Gemini, June 4th and I'm an Aquarius, besides being mother and son, astrologically, we're compatible.

For my 21st birthday, when she asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I asked for a blowjob. I like blowjobs, especially those from my mother. Actually, I never had a blowjob from anyone else but Mom.

"Just a blowjob? That's all you want Mommy to do for you for your birthday, Valentine, your twenty-first birthday? Today, my son is officially a man," she said hugging me and kissing me.

"Yeah, not only just a blowjob, I want a slow blowjob. I want you to make love to my cock," I said. "I want you to look up at me, while you sucking my cock so that I can see my cock in your mouth."

"Okay, I can do that," she said with a smile. She blew me three times that day and each blowjob lasted nearly an hour with her teasing me, licking me, sucking me, and stroking me, while delaying the climatic final moment, where I unloaded everything I had in her mouth three times and she swallowed every time.

Only, because it was Valentine's Day, my day to give myself to my mother, I couldn't just get away with her giving me a blowjob. I had to take care of her, too. So, after I made love to her, after I gave her an orgasm with my mouth and with my cock, I made myself comfortable in bed in readiness to receive my birthday gift, a slow blowjob from my mother.

With her 40th birthday approaching, I'm going to have to do something special, whatever she wants, anything she wants me to do to make her 40th birthday a special day. Since we don't have a lot of money and can't afford to buy one another expensive gifts, we only make enough to scrape by, our birthday gifts to one another are always something sexual, some sort of sexual fantasy.

Living life together in the way we sexually experience one another is as if we're newlyweds, only more than that and much better than that. Being that we're mother and son, we know one another so well that the sex we have is better than I imagine it would be with anyone else. Not knowing that for sure, because I've never had sex with any other woman other than my mother, I don't want to have sex with anyone else. I'd never cheat on her. I love my mother.

Our sexual antics started when I was 18-years-old and my mother was 35-years-old and it took us two years, before we finally had sex. Looking back now, afraid to cross the incestuous line, we wasted two years. With me always horny and her sexually frustrated, gradually, our teasing and flirting with voyeurism and exhibitionism, finally erupted that fateful day when we finally had incestuous sex.

A point of no return, now that we crossed that bridge, three years ago, ever since my 20th birthday, my Mom celebrates my birthday by giving herself to me. Since my birthday falls on Valentine's Day, with her giving herself to me, I celebrate Valentine's Day by giving myself to her. It's a special day for both of us, where we spend most of our day in bed making out and making love. Nothing was taboo and as if we were husband and wife, we did everything and in every position.

Most mothers and sons who have an incestuous relationship have sex once that is clumsy, awkward, uncomfortable, and embarrassing. The fantasy before the actual sexual act is always more erotic than the actual physical act. Not so with us. We're different, in the regard that, our first sexual experience was more of a love affair than it was a thing of incestuous lust.

Yeah, sure, I suppose one could say that, because I was only 20-years-old when we had intercourse and started flirting and teasing, when I was only 18-years-old, my Mom took advantage of me, but I was old enough to know better. I knew what I was doing then, just as a 23-year-old man, I know what I'm doing now. So long as we both agree to making love and remain faithful in our committed relationship, I don't see anything wrong with having sex with my mother.

Because I was born on Valentine's Day, twenty-three-years ago, my Mom named me Valentine. That's my name, just Valentine. Weird to some, but I've grown to like it. If it's anything, it's different. If ever I become famous, if ever I become a star, I'll already have the name, Valentine, just like Cher, Madonna, and Liberace, just Valentine.

"Whenever I say your name, instead of thinking about the bad that surrounded the circumstances of your birth, I think about the good. I think about Valentine's Day and I think about love. I'm so glad I gave you that name," my Mom said to me with a warm smile. "I think about how lucky I am to have you in my life, my one and only, my favorite Valentine," she said giving me a hug and a kiss.

"Thanks, Mom," I said returning her kiss.

She always made me feel special, whenever she said that. Even though I like my name, I'm grateful she didn't give me a first name of Happy. I had enough problems with the neighborhood kids in school, which is what they called me anyway, Happy Valentine or just Happy, even though I wasn't so happy, but sad, with them chasing me home from school nearly every day. With no bullying laws back then, I somehow managed to survive.

The hospital staff pressured her to give me a last name, as they pressed her to give them the father's name. Yet, because she was raped and brutalized, gangbanged by multiple men, without having a DNA test and a paternity suit, she didn't know who the father was. Rather than ruin the happy day of my birth by digging up what happened to her nearly nine months before, I suspect she preferred not knowing who fathered her baby.

She could have given me her last name, but she hated her father, as much as she hated her sexual assaulters, her Dad's drunken friends. At the time, she lived with her Dad and the rape happened when she was made to serve them drinks during a televised, professional wrestling match that turned out to be an impromptu, sexual wrestling match. They raped her, while her father watched and even participated. For all she knows, he may be my father. That's so weird. He's since died in a drunken car accident, when his car hit a pole and he went through the windshield.

So, officially, my birth certificate reads, Baby Boy Valentine. I guess, I could have gone by the name Baby Boy, or Baby, or just Boy, in the way that Tarzan referred to his son. Yet, later in life, what kind of name would Baby Boy, Baby, or Boy be for a grown man? I'm glad it's just Valentine.

If the neighborhood kids knew that Baby Boy was on my birth certificate and listed as my first name, there'd be no stop to their teasing. Inasmuch as they called Babe Ruth, Babe, the name Valentine evokes the memory of Rudolph Valentino and that famous fashion designer, Valentino. When Eddie Murphy played that character Valentine in that Wall Street spoof of a movie Trading Places, I wouldn't mind having the street smarts of the character he played.

Back then, my Mom loved Eddie Murphy and her favorite movie was Trading Places, and the name of his character inspired my name, no doubt. She told me that she had no intention of naming me Valentine, but because I was two weeks premature and born on Valentine's Day, an early Valentine gift, having not, yet, decided upon a name, she said my name was kismet. When the doctor asked her what she was going to name me, she thought of her favorite movie, her favorite actor, Eddie Murphy playing the character Valentine, and because it was Valentine's Day, fated to happen, it was my destiny to have that name.

I've grown to be proud of my name. I never met anyone else with the same name, as I've come across so many Johns, Joes, and Bobs. My name makes me feel different and uniquely special. Yet, when it comes to my mother, I think my name evokes me having a big heart because she's always hugging me, kissing me, and touching me, not in a sexual way, just in a motherly way.

When I think back how it all started, it all started off so innocently. Now, it's more of a love affair than it is us having incestuous sex. I don't even think of her as my Mom, but more as my wife or sexy girlfriend.

It was different back then, than it is now. When she became pregnant with me at only 16-years-old, not as much a religious choice, as it was a personal choice for her, she couldn't give me up for adoption or have me aborted. Thank God.

"I always play the cards dealt to me," she said happy that she was teaching me a life lesson and she was. "I would have always regretted my decision to abort your fetus. You've been the best thing in my life," she said.

Her words made me accept who I am as a person, instead of what I didn't have. I always believed that if I was dealt a shitty hand that, instead of throwing my cards away and not even playing the game, I could bluff, which is what I learned to do and did. I bluffed, or in my case, lied my way through life hoping not to be discovered. I learned, as I progressed in life, sometimes through osmosis, and I became an expert at bluffing and lying. Eventually, with my street education complete, when I learned all that I needed to know to survive, I no longer had to bluff and/or lie. Still, lying and bluffing are skills that never left me and I still call upon them from time to time.

I lied about my education to get a better job. I lied about where I lived, so as not to be buttonholed as being poor, uneducated, and/or lazy. I lied about what I knew and what I didn't know. Fortunately, I had the intelligence to fake what I didn't know, while learning what I needed to know quickly, without anyone ever suspecting that I was a phony and a fraud. Unless my competitor has a lot of money that he or she can afford to lose, I don't advice playing poker with me. Now that I know how to play the game, poker, as well as life, expert at both, no one can tell when I'm bluffing or lying.

With my lying and bluffing in mind, one could extrapolate and make the leap that I'm lying about loving my mother, in the way that a man loves a woman, as opposed to how a son loves his mother, by bluffing myself into believing what we have is love, instead of nasty incest, but it's not. We have the real thing and I love her, as much as she loves me. I hope we stay together for the rest of our lives.

Even though it's a bittersweet memory, because of the unfortunate circumstances of my birth, with my Mom having me out of wedlock, my Mom's favorite day, of course, is Valentine's Day, my birthday. Still, the fact that I didn't have a last name, didn't escape my classmates. I was always teased and, just as they wondered about the absence of my Dad, the kids wondered about the absence of my last name. They always speculated the worst scenario and most times they guessed right but, by bluffing and/or lying, I always showed my outrage to throw them off track. There's that ability to bluff and lie, again, coming in handy, whenever I needed it the most, not to mention that I needed to be a good actor to make them believe that all that I said was true.

Growing up with a dark cloud over my head, I didn't want anyone to know that I was a bastard baby, a baby born out of rape, hate, and violence. With just the bad karma of the details of my birth following me through life, if I dwelled on the negative way in how my life began, my life would have been worse than it was. I didn't want anyone to know that I never knew my father. Instead, I told them my Dad was in jail for murder and, figuring like father like son, that gave me some street credibility with the neighborhood thugs. I wished, instead, that I was born out of a marriage that was filled with love, kindness, and caring. Regardless of how my life started, my life got better, as I grew older and I have to thank my Mom for that.

My Mom was always there for me. She was my rock, when I was in a soft spot with my emotions and she was my pillow, when I was having a hard time. As it was always just my Mom and me, we grew closer. Even though we developed a special bond that a mother should never have with her son, it wasn't like that with us. It was different for us. Our symbiotic relationship worked well with us. We were a match and the right fit physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Without doubt, if it wasn't for her love helping me through life, because of the bad neighborhood we lived it, I'd either be dead or in jail. One another's number one fans, we were our support team. With no family and no friends, it was just us.

Protective of one another and always there for one another, our lives could have been so much worse. How many people have a true, best friend, someone they can totally trust and depend upon, someone who would willingly and without hesitation give their life for them? In the way we watched out for one another's backs, it was comforting to know we weren't alone.

I was her son, her best friend, and her lover and she was my mother, my best friend, and my lover. To each their own, whatever floats your boat, once we closed our bedroom door, so long as we didn't flaunt our incestuous relationship out in the open for public speculation, gossip, rumor, innuendo, discussion, and/or shocked rejection, we didn't see anything wrong with our living arrangement. In whatever way a mother shows her love for her son and a son returns her love in kind, it was none of anyone's business what we did behind closed doors.

Fuck them. There was no one there for us and no one to help us through our lives but ourselves, when we needed the help the most. Walk in our shoes, before you dare judge us. If we found some shared comfort sexually in one another's bodies, that's a beautiful thing, no matter where we found it.

When we finally moved to a better neighborhood, in the way that people don't even know who lives next door to them today, no one even knew we were mother and son. That was when, instead of calling her Mom, I started calling her Christine. My Mom looked young enough and I looked old enough that we could have been husband and wife or boyfriend and girlfriend for all anyone knew. Besides, it was no one's business, if we were husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, significant other to one another, or mother and son. As far as we were concerned, we were just two disenfranchised people trying to make it through life, as best as we could and in whatever way we knew how.

The fact that we had sex is only wrong, when someone who doesn't understand the love we have and share for one another labels it and puts a negative name to it, incest, a word that connotes how we lived was wrong and what we did behind closed doors was nasty. Only, we didn't see it that way. We saw our relationship as beautiful, caring, and loving. We saw it as two people who came together under extraordinarily difficult circumstances of living life alone, her without a husband and me without a dad, joining forces to live as a supportive couple. To make it through our days, we had to take on more than one role to survive.

Even then, with one helping the other, our lives weren't all honey and roses. For a while, before my Mom got some training to get a better job and earned enough money to support us and saved up enough money to move to a better neighborhood, there was a dark side with hunger and homelessness. Before the dawn of another day, there was a scary night of pain, suffering, and anxiety, before a new day dawned that gave us hope for a better life.

With my Mom being a survivor of sexual abuse and her making her way through a perverted mother's love for her son and a son's lust for his mother, our relationship was doomed from the start and easily could have soured and failed. Instead our love for one another blossomed. Fortunately for us, our relationship not only survived but also grew stronger, and we're still together as a couple, even after all these years.

Easily my Mom could have done to me what was done to her, sexually abused and used me, but it was never like that. Having respect for one another, right from the beginning, we had more of a loving relationship than we did a sexual one. Yeah, sure, eventually, there was plenty of sex but, whenever we had sex it was more out of love than it was out of lust.

Now, that I'm 23-years-old and she turns 40-years-old this year, just as any normal couple does, we've reached a point in our incestuous relationship where we need to do more to sexually stimulate and excite one another. Maybe because, even though it is, we don't think of it as incest, but it's weird that even incestuous sex isn't enough, after having sex for a while. After years of teasing, flirting, flaunting, and sexually satisfying one another, my Mom decided that she'd like to try flashing in public, while I watched. Hey, it was her birthday and if that's what she wanted to do, we did it.

Since I'm a voyeur, it was just as much a present for me, as it was for her. I thought it would be hot to have some sexy fun with my Mom at the mall and whenever we were out in public that day of her 40th birthday. So long as we were discreet, so long as we made it appear accidental, whatever we did during the day, fueled our passion with hot pillow talk that night. I had the best sex with my Mom, after she sexually aroused herself by flashing her body.

The first flashing thing we did is what so many couples do. My Mom flashed the pizza delivery man. I double dared her to do it and that's all it took for her to agree. We ordered her favorite pizza for lunch, a Hawaiian with extra pineapple.

We watched as he pulled up in his car. He was a college kid. With me out of the sight of the pizza guy at the door, I watched my Mom answer the door just wearing a short towel that barely covered her boobs and her pussy. As soon as she handed him the money with one hand, while reaching for the pizza with her other hand and trying to hold the towel with her forearms, the towel fell and she was naked. Even though it was only a few seconds, before she squatted down and retrieved the towel, while still holding the pizza in one hand and trying to cover her nakedness with the other, it was hot and we had great pillow talk and wild sex after that. Probably the best tip he had that day, he never took his eyes of my Mom's big boobs.

After lunch, we headed off to the mall. Doubly exciting, it's one thing to go flashing with your girlfriend or wife but it's something else to go flashing with your mother. Our next flashing adventure was the shoe store, where she tried on a pair of boots a size too small. She was wearing a short skirt that climbed higher the more the shoe store salesman struggled to fit her foot in the boot. Raising and spreading her leg high enough for him to fit her foot, while giving a good look of her bright, white panties, I watched all the action through the window outside the store.