A Concerned Mother

As a single mother, it can be easy to assume that you are giving your kids the attention that they need. Between the day to day chores and work, you can become complacent, convinced that you are fulfilling your obligations. When it hits you that you have overlooked something, it is like a slap in the face. How could you have been so detached? How could you have missed so much?

It's hard to say when it started. It might have been the date I brought home that triggered it. It may have begun much sooner. Still, we must start somewhere and the date will suffice.

I have a rule about dating. I don't bring a date home to meet the kids unless I am sure that it's serious. If I need to scratch that certain itch, then I don't do it at home; I've had a few one night stands, but always at their place. However, I have broken that rule exactly one time. It happened a week before the whole debacle, the contents of which I shall cover in good time. Perhaps I am reading into that night a little too much. Perhaps my guilt over breaking my rule has led to the assumption in causality. Maybe or maybe not. I still need a place to begin the story.

I was drunk on house wine, which is far too cheap to be just as effective. The plan was to call it a night, but my date, Howard, was all hands and damn good to look at. He was about forty with salt and pepper hair and a tall, broad frame. We found ourselves making out in my driveway as he was supposed to be dropping me off. It seemed harmless, but his hands roamed south and my blood was boiling. So, glimpsing up at the second story windows where my kids slept and finding both lights out, and being so in the mood and with a more than adequate partner in a like state of mind, I led Howard in and up the stairs, to the room across the hall from my son—my room—and proceeded to give Howard my finest blowjob.

I was going to leave it at that. A quick face fuck and a stomach full of wine and semen. Once again, Howard's hands began to roam, and once again I was game. After he found me wet, he pulled his cock from my mouth and pushed me back on the bed. When he pushed into me, I began to moan. I am a moaner. I like sex and my partners know I like sex. This fact was the foundation of my rule, as I didn't want the kids to hear their mother pleading like a slut to be fucked harder and faster. Needless to say, I lost my head. At some point I began riding him, and he began to play off of my dirty talk with some of his own.

"That pussy feels so fucking good," he said, pounding it with my legs over his head.

"Take it, baby!" I answered back. "Fuck my cunt!"

Crass? Maybe. But I like my dirty talk filthy. Otherwise, what's the point?

"I'm going to cum!" He announced, much to my displeasure. I couldn't blame him, though. Considering how hard I had been sucking his cock, I was surprised he hadn't blasted the back of my throat.

He pulled out, which was good, considering my lack of birth control and his lack of a condom, and shot three big ropes of jizz at my face. The first caught me in the eye (of fucking course it did) and the other two hit my lips and forehead. I drove my head down on his cock, filling my mouth with the last spurt. Then I swallowed. He collapsed in bed. I informed him that he could not sleep over and he left happy despite that fact. As I lay in bed listening to his engine rev up and fade away into the night, I heard the floor board outside of my room creak. That's when it hit me. I had broken my rule and one of my kids had heard me fucking some stranger. At that moment I had ceased to be just mom. Now, I was the mom who had begged to have my pussy filled with some man's big dick. Not my finest hour. I wasn't even sober and I already felt the sting of regret.

I could only hope it was my daughter and not my son. She was older and less fragile. Although he was eighteen, he was still living in his childhood, interested in comic books and collectible figurines. Plus, Becca would be leaving for college in a month, so she wasn't going to be around to stare awkwardly at me across the breakfast table for much longer.

I listened as the presence outside the door slunk away. Toward my son's room.

The next week was a strange one. It began with Max being more silent than usual around me. I would catch him staring at me out of the corner of my eye. I could not have read his mind, but I guessed he was reappraising his mother and finding her to be something terrible. He stopped spending his time in the common areas of the house, and began shutting himself up in his room. I hated to see it, because he was already a little pale, a little thin and wispy. The thought of him wasting away further crushed me. It became so obvious, that I remarked to Becca that I thought he was depressed. She gave me a coy little smile.

"Oh, mother," she said, "I don't think he's depressed."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

In answer she made a pumping motion with her hand.

"No!"

She just smiled and went back to reading her book.

I considered the possibility. I wasn't so naïve as to believe that he wasn't jerking off, but I had always associated that particular action with his long bath times and late nights below the covers. Otherwise he had always been so active and present. If he had been spending so much more time masturbating, then what had he taken away from my indiscretions with Howard? Had it turned him on? The fact that I may have directly fueled my son's masturbation was disconcerting. As the week wore on, it began to weigh heavily on my mind. Somewhere, amidst all my worry, something dark and dangerous was seeded; something not unlike arousal.

I guess that I should not have been surprised that my son might find his mother attractive. I carry a little weight on my thighs and ass, although I suppose that is fashionable these days. Beyond that, I have a narrow waist and large-if not quite as firm as they used to be-breasts. I keep up my appearance and I have found more than one teenage boy checking me out at the market.

I basically filed the though away as "possible but not likely" and continued to look for signs of depression. It wasn't until the morning of the incident, when I realized that I was missing a pair of panties that I began to entertain the idea. Normally, I would never notice a single pair of my underwear missing; I keep them bunched up in a drawer. Certainly, I don't keep them folded and organized or accounted for, but I happened to be looking for the specific pair I had bought for my date that night.

At first when I couldn't find them, I thought I had left them in a plastic bag and they had been tossed in with the garbage. When I heard the door slam as Max left for school, I remembered what Becca had implied. I decided the idea was foolish, but needed to be explored. I was sure I would search in Max's room, find nothing, and chide myself for being so paranoid. With a little laugh to myself I would put it all behind me, Max would come out of his funk, and all would be as it was before I let Howard have me within shouting distance of my teenaged son's room.

I grabbed an empty laundry basket and headed up the stairs. The prop would give me plausibility if I was discovered snooping. I would just say I had come up to collect the dirty clothes from the room. After all, Max had been doing way less laundry considering the time spent in his room.

AS I mounted the stairs, these thoughts were in the front of my head. In the back was a twinge of something, only evidenced by a slight jolt of adrenaline and my warming cheeks. AS a red head, I tend to blush noticeably.

With no ceremony or apprehension, I rose to the second floor landing and made my way into my son's room. The odor was that of sweat, a light amount of body odor and...my cheeks began to burn...cum. I put the basket on his desk and closed my eyes. I would not say I swooned. I would say I felt light headed in light the evidence. I would be lying a little, though. I opened the drawers of his dresser. I found a magazine in the bottom drawer, under some shirts. It was called Wet Teens. At first I saw this as a good sign. He was jerking off to pictures of girls his own age. Good. I opened up to the center of the book. A young lithe, tight bodied blonde wearing rainbow knee high socks—and nothing else—was shoving a Popsicle into her shaven pussy.

I wondered where he had gotten the magazine and why he needed it. He could have just used the computer. I replaced the magazine as I had found it and shut the drawer. I glanced to his unmade bed, then to the wastebasket next to his desk. It was full of balled up tissue paper, glazed as it were. I pulled back the comforter to reveal a stain on the underside. I stared at it for a while, before raising the fabric to my face and stealing a whiff. At this point I thought about what I was doing. I felt immensely perverse, but reminded myself that I was just trying to determine if the comforter was ready for the wash, despite the fact that I knew I had never intended to do the laundry. I flipped the comforter to the floor and raised the sheet to inspect it. My panties, purple and lacey revealed themselves from beneath, wadded up and stained.

My eyes fell on them. I reached out and picked them up, and why not? They were mine. I felt something wet and warm on them. He had only been out the door for ten minutes and the last thing he had done before running off to school was to shoot a load into his mother's panties? I pulled my hand away and wiped it on the sheet. I put the comforter back on the bed and picked up my basket. I shut the door behind me and went across the room and sat on my bed. The bed where Howard had covered my face with his jizz, where I had imbibed his cum, and where my son had heard me beg for it. I put my fingers to my nose. I could smell Max's cum. Somehow the thought to suck on them flashed into my mind, but I didn't. Instead, I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes. My fingers found their way between the waistband of my jeans before tracing the contours of my pussy over my panties. I was half surprised to find a wet spot there. I was burning hot. I felt like such a dirty slut, being turned on by my son's use of my underwear in his masturbation ritual. My eyes shot open and once again, I felt drunk, though this time not on wine.

A nasty thought bubbled to the surface of my psyche. Did I dare? I considered how hot it would be. Quickly, I stood and unbuttoned my pants, letting them fall to the floor with my panties. I pulled off my sweater and undid the clasp of my bra. I stood before the mirror hanging from my bedroom door, looking at myself. My cheeks were flush, as were my chest and neck. My pussy looked slightly swollen and pink. I opened the door and crossed the hall into Max's room once more. I shut his door and locked it. I flipped the comforter and sheet to the corner of the bed and lifted my panties to my face, letting my nose push into the fabric. I rubbed the damp cooling semen into my face and lips. I lay splayed open on the bed and rubbed my panties all over my breasts and stomach like a sponge, bathing myself in the wetness of my son's seed. With my right hand I fingered myself hard. I licked the salt from my lips, bucking wildly into my clenching hand.

I came right there, soaking my juices into the sheets where they would dry with his cum, adding my odor to his. I upped the tempo, sliding the purple panties down to my pussy, where I used both hands to push them inside of me. Wave after wave of orgasm hit me. I felt filthy. I felt hotter than ever. Something about the taboo act fed into my need to be trashy and perverted and slutty. When I finally fell back on the bed, my body was slick with sweat. I fell asleep, spent from my throes and full from my pleasure. I knew I could never go back to being a normal mom. Perhaps I never had been. Maybe I had always been this way and Max had always known. Maybe he had been dreaming of filling me up with his spunk—like he had filled my wadded panties- since he had had spunk. Maybe my tryst with Howard had been the last bit of water to break the dam. I believe now that this was all justifications for my actions. At the time, I needed to believe that I hadn't changed him, and in changing him, hadn't discovered the woman inside.