A Mothers Lust 9

I shut the front door behind me and savor the cool air flowing through the house. The weather is lovely, but the June summer heat is hard to bear unless you're sunbathing nude. With sweat dripping down my face, I enter the kitchen and pour myself a cold drink of water.

My husband is already there eating a late lunch. His light-brown hair is a wild mess as he looks up at me with his blue eyes. He smiles at me in a silent 'welcome home', and I kiss his cheek to show I'm glad to be home before heading upstairs. The waistband of my sweatpants chafes against my skin, and I can't wait to get out of these clothes and take a nice shower.

I reach the landing and head to the bathroom, passing by my daughters' shared bedroom and remembering that they're out of the house all day with friends.

I don't bother closing the bathroom door all the way as I remove my sweat-drenched T-shirt and toss it in the hamper while trying not to dwell on how I must have looked in public. With no bra on, I'm sure the men were staring at my perky nipples through the fabric.

As I pull my sweatpants down my toned legs, I notice something colorful on the floor. It's a paper party crown with the number 18 emblazoned in gold on the front. It's from my son's eighteenth birthday party the previous week, although what it's doing in here is a mystery.

Into the wastebin the paper crown goes, and I kick off my sweatpants and toss them into the hamper along with my cotton panties. Before starting the shower, I take a moment to admire myself in the mirror, a daily ritual of mine to remind myself that I still look good.

My body has been toned with daily Pilates and jogging. My slender thighs lead up to a neatly trimmed golden bush on my crotch, framed by hips that are curved from three pregnancies and the ordeal of three vaginal deliveries. They're complemented by a beautifully snatched waist leading up to a pair of C-cups which still look plump for a woman in her late thirties.

Finally, there's my heart-shaped face with blue eyes like my husband's, a button nose, and thin lips, all framed by luscious golden hair flowing down past my shoulders. I look ten years younger than I actually am, and there's no shame in indulging in a little vanity.

But I'm still covered in dirt and sweat. Time to get clean.

As I turn around to enter the shower, I notice that the door is still open. I couldn't be bothered to close it properly, let alone lock it, but that's not the only thing that catches my attention. I march over to the door and yank it wide open.

The young man on the other side staggers back in surprise, his boxers around his thighs, and his hand still gripping the shaft of his penis. We just stare at each other silently, neither one of us able to articulate anything to say about what I just caught him doing.

"...I...I..." my firstborn child stammers, "...I was just waiting for you finish."

"And you were passing the time by masturbating while watching me?" My eyebrow is raised in parental skepticism as I take in the sight of his naked body.

"You're the one who didn't lock the door." As if that excuses him being a peeping tom.

But then I realize that I'm completely naked in front of him and I opened the door without any thought towards covering myself up. A little gasp escapes my lips and I raise my hands in an attempt to cover up my modesty, but then I think better of it.

Of course, most women with an ounce of dignity would already have slammed the door in this teenaged pervert's face, but something restrains me from doing that. That something is keeping my eyes glued to his naked body just as his are glued to mine.

A shameful idea pops into my head and escapes my lips before I can stop it.

"Get in here."

My son flinches in surprise at the command. I can't quite believe that an instruction like that would escape my lips, and he can't either, but eventually he steps over the threshold. I shut the door behind him, and this time I lock it. God forbid my husband walks in on the two of us.

I turn on the shower and hold my hand under the water to make sure the temperature is right while my son removes his boxers and stands there waiting for my signal.

"Put your underwear in the hamper, please." There's a sharp tone in my voice. I'm sick of the kids leaving their clothes lying on the floor everywhere.

My son snaps to attention and does as he's told while I step into the shower cubicle. As I let the cool water flow over me, I see my son hesitate, wary of the line we'll be crossing once he steps into the shower cubicle with me.

"Get in here," I order him. "There's nothing to be ashamed of."

I'm not so sure about that last part, and neither is he as he joins me.

My son started lifting weights regularly when he was fifteen, and three years later the results would make any woman weak in the knees. His arms and chest are toned and muscular, he has the faint outline of a six-pack on his stomach, tapering to a V-shape just above his crotch. His thighs and ass also look strong, and I mentally restrain myself from grabbing his glutes.

But I like what I see from the neck upwards, too. He kind of has my heart-shaped face, just like his two younger sisters, but the rest of his facial features come from his father. Our genes compromised on his hair color and mixed my own golden locks with my husband's light brown hair to form a kind of dirty blond color that almost looks dyed.

And then there's what he has between his legs.

He's still hard from playing with himself earlier. His boner stands at an impressive six inches, and it's thick enough to make any girl squeal. He keeps his pubic hair neatly trimmed -- a habit I very much appreciate -- and below is a sack big enough to rest in the palm of my hand.

I'm actually examining my son's genitals in the shower. This is so perverted and wrong, but I have no intention of kicking him out.

The sexual tension is already simmering between us. We haven't been naked together since I gave him baths as a baby, and I certainly didn't see him as anything more than my son until he legally became a man. When did he start to see me as a woman?

"How long have you been peeping on me?" The question comes out of my mouth, but also out of the blue for both of us.

"Just once before," he replies, directing his gaze towards the glazed door of the cubicle, "the day after my birthday party, I saw you getting changed. I watched you put on that bright-red lingerie for dad, but that's all I saw."

"Did you rub one out to me later?" I can't resist asking because I really want to know.

He doesn't answer me, but the look on his face tells me he did. I avert my own gaze, trying to hide how flattered I am that my own son got off to the sight of my naked body. There's still a small part of me that feels ashamed to allow that sort of thing, but it's faint and weak.

We try to wash ourselves, taking turns with the cool water and sharing the scented lotion. I take the initiative by lathering the shampoo all over my son's muscular chest and back, while he manages his shoulders and arms.

Then it's his turn to wash me, and I encourage him not to be shy as he lathers the lotion all over my breasts, groping and fondling them while closing the distance between us. Next thing I know, he's pressing his body against mine while running his shampoo-covered hands across my naked flesh, reaching down to my belly and butt.

Then he makes the daring move down between my thighs.

"No, no, no," I admonish softly, gently removing his hand from my special place, "we're not quite ready for that." He looks disappointed, but I maintain our naked embrace while running my own hands across his strong back.

His six-inch hard-on is pressed up against my belly, rubbing back and forth while his balls rest just above my pubes. I look into his gorgeous blue eyes, the mirror of my own and the man whose seed blessed me with this handsome young stud. He's several inches taller than I am, and he looks down with confused lust in his eyes.

"Why don't you show me how you masturbate?"

He's not as put off by my suggestion as I expected, and he pulls away to give himself room before wrapping his fingers around his shaft and stroking it. I bite my lip as I stare at his cock, his hand moving up and down his ample length with a practiced speed and rhythm.

I don't think I've ever seen my husband masturbate. Why would he when my pussy feels so much better than his sweaty hand? Still, it's fascinating to see a man pleasure himself in this way. My son has no problems staying hard when I'm standing right in front of him; he might even be hoping that I change my mind about sex in the shower.

It's far too soon for that. I want to see how he performs solo first.

As my son strokes himself, he ogles me from head to toe; from the blue eyes I gave him, to the breasts I used to nurse him as a baby, the belly that once held his growing form, and down to the patch of hairy gold that crowns the sacred gates he passed through to enter this world.

His breathing is becoming labored. Is his arm getting tired already or is he close to cumming? My own breath is baited as I wait for the answer, which emerges as a groan from his lips and a spurt of milky-white syrup from the tip of his cock.

My son ejaculates all over my belly, shooting his semen out in thick, healthy jets. Feeling his cum splattering my stomach and dripping down my wet skin leaves a delicious feeling of guilty pleasure as yet another line between us is decisively crossed.

He continues rubbing himself in order to get the last few drops out of his penis -- right before the infamous post-nut clarity sets in.

My son's cheeks turn a shame-faced red as he realizes that he just masturbated in front of his own mother, and even unloaded a cumshot onto my belly. I'm still only dimly aware of the magnitude of what just happened between us, but it just hit him like a freight train.

"I enjoyed that," I remark with a reassuring smile. He doesn't look at all reassured. "Let's get cleaned up in here, then get changed into something comfortable so we can talk this over."

I don't know what putting on fresh clothes has to do with smoothing over the awkwardness of what just transpired, but it's the only thing that I can think of to say.

As we continue washing ourselves, my son focuses on his genitals, taking care to clean under his foreskin to wash away any traces of cum. I can't keep my eyes off his flaccid penis or his impressive balls. Mostly, I'm impressed by the sheer size of his load, and I take my sweet time washing it off of my belly before washing the lotion off my body and out of my hair.

Before we finish, I can't help but reach over and grab his balls -- gently, of course. My move startles him, and he squirms bashfully as I cup them in my palm and caress them. He passed my little test with flying colors, and it leaves me wanting more.

"You're gonna make a lot of girls very happy," I whisper sensually.

With all that said and done, it's time to finish up. Almost as soon as we step out of the shower, the lingering sexual chemistry fades, and the full shame of what just happened between us hits me just as hard as it hit him. I enter a heart-pounding daze as I dry myself off and wrap the towel around my body, struggling to fathom what could have possessed me.

My son doesn't stick around to make our shared embarrassment any worse. He grabs a towel, unlocks the door, and pokes his head through to make sure the coast is clear before making a dash for his bedroom across the hallway.

I breathe a sigh of only partial relief. My delayed onset shame only now causes me to realize that, in addition to letting my son cum all over my belly, I've technically just cheated on my husband. This is the sort of thing that ends up as a scandalous news item in a gossip magazine.

And yet...I'm already looking forward to taking things further.

* * *

We never did end up talking it over. What could I have said other than 'we should never do that again'? I know that's morally true, but deep down I understand that neither of us wants to close that door. In fact, later that night I instructed him not to masturbate for an entire week.

Whether my maternal authority was enough to override his youthful libido isn't something I tried to monitor. But that week has now passed, and as I sit on the edge of the bed wearing a skimpy little robe, I have just enough shame to acknowledge that what we're about to do will be even worse than what happened in the shower.

What makes it even worse is that I've been consciously planning this. Hubby left for the train station on Friday and won't be back until Monday afternoon, all of which I knew in advance. I knew my son and I would have a whole weekend to cross even more shameful red lines than the ones we've already violated -- so there's no way to blame impulsive urges for tonight.

As I wait for the fatefully appointed time to arrive, I look over my shoulder and gaze at the framed family photograph on the bedside table. My husband and I are standing arm-in-arm while our son and two daughters are gathered in front, everyone grinning at the camera like the happy family we mostly are. My eyes linger on my son -- which of course they do.

Of all the things that make me a terrible mother, having a favorite child holds a pretty low ranking on the list, but there's no denying that my son is that child. As my firstborn, my son will always hold a special place in my heart.

I was only his age now when I conceived him. The man who would become my husband had all but swept me off my feet and into his bed, and I was shocked to discover myself pregnant at only eighteen. Fortunately, the father manned up and put a ring on my finger shortly before the birth, and we're still together after eighteen years of marriage.

My daughters are still only fifteen and eleven, and I love them both as any mother should, but my son was my first, and I wonder if it's that unequal connection that's driving me to do this. If true, it's a poor excuse. I'm choosing to do this, and he's choosing to go along with it.

It's close to midnight when the doorknob turns of its own accord and the door to the master bedroom slowly creaks open. My son walks in wearing just his boxers and carefully shuts the door behind him. His sisters' shared bedroom is at the far end of the hallway, which provides scant reassurance that they won't overhear us.

My son takes a step forward and then pauses. He stands there awkwardly, his gaze flitting back and forth from the wall to me and back again, not knowing what to do next. Does he really not know how to proceed, or is he having second thoughts?

I break the ice by standing up and allowing my robe to fall to the floor.

My son gulps at the sight of my body, dressed in the same bright-red lingerie he says he saw me wearing a fortnight ago. It's a lace design which leaves little to the imagination. Even my nipples and pubic hair are visible through the mesh.

"D'you like it?"

His slack-jawed stare and the way he reaches down to tug on the tent in his boxers are all the answer I need. That familiar sense of flattery dampens the uneasy feelings of guilt and shame. My son obviously wants me, and I want him, too.

"Take your boxers off and get into bed with me."

My son nods and does what I tell him. His six-inch manhood is stiff and ready, and as I pull back the covers and climb into bed, he follows me obediently and settles down next to me. As I pull the covers back over our naked bodies, I realize I forgot to take my lingerie off first.

"Now, help me with my bra." I tell him that as if it's all part of what I have planned, and he nods and reaches behind my back to unhook my bra.

It comes loose easily, and he helps me remove it from my arms. I gesture for him to discard it on the floor before reaching down to my waist in order to remove my translucent red panties. It's pretty awkward to get them off while we're both under the covers, and I wish I'd done a striptease for him before we climbed into bed, but we manage it.

My panties end up on the floor next to my bra, and then we just lie there. Once again, I have to make the first move to keep the chemistry simmering. I place my hands on his strong pecs and caress them, encouraging him to move closer until he's almost on top of me. My thighs open for him as they've done for his father thousands of times before in this same bed.

Then he stops.

"Should we really be doing this?" For some reason, his hesitation worries me more than the fact that mother and son are in bed naked together.

"It wasn't so bad in the shower last week." I try to stay seductive, but the doubts he's raising are killing the mood, and I don't like that.

"But...you're my mother."

Really? When did you first notice that?

"And you're my son," I reply soothingly, "but when you turned eighteen, you became a man, and I can't stop thinking of you as a man. I am your mother, but that doesn't mean you can't think of me as a woman, too."

That seems to reassure him, and to my surprise his lips connect with mine. The kiss is sensual and soft, and I wrap my arms around his strong body to pull him in closer. Then I hold him by his cheeks and run my fingers through his dark-blond hair as he maneuvers into position.

We're really going to do this. I'm really about to have penetrative sex with my son. I can feel his one-eyed snake poking eagerly at my lower lips. I can scarcely wait for him to enter me, and my hands slide down the toned contours of his muscular back to his well-rounded ass, encouraging him to take the fateful plunge.

The moment he slides inside me, a gasp escapes my lips. He's just the right size; long enough to reach the top of my vagina, and just thick enough to stretch my walls, but not so much as to make it painful. Better still, the excitement and anticipation of this moment has moistened my pussy to make his thrusting smooth and comfortable.

His strokes are slow and deep at first, just as they should be. I trust him to set the pace of our lovemaking, and I content myself with holding his body close, digging my fingernails into the flesh of his shoulders. My knees are tucked in close, and my feet are on either side of his undulating hips. Call me boring, but nothing beats classic missionary.

My son doesn't keep his own hands to himself for long. He lifts himself into a kind of pushup position and continues humping me, but this time brings his hands to bear on my breasts. He eagerly fondles my globes of flesh in a way that excites me as much as it does him. I love the way he plays with my body while thrusting inside the passageway he emerged from.

I pull his face in close to mine again until our lips connect in another passionate kiss. All the while, his thrusting cock slides back and forth inside my sacred tunnel, and my vaginal walls squeeze against his thick shaft, encouraging him to unload into me. Little moans are escaping my lips as we make love, and I have to grit my teeth and suppress the noise as best I can.

Keeping the sex as silent as possible is both emotional and practical. The whole family knows that dad is out of the house until Monday, and the thought of one of my daughters waking up in the night to investigate the sex noises coming from mom and dad's bedroom horrifies me.

But not quite enough to make me want this to stop. Ever.

My son's nose is pressed against mine, our lips so close that it's almost a kiss. I run my hands all over his beautifully muscular body as his powerful hips rise and fall between my toned thighs. I drag my fingers across every contour of his body, and I can only think one thought.

I. Made. This.

Every inch of this beautifully masculine physique, every muscle, bone, and cell, came out of me. I grew this sexy young man, this entire handsome human being, inside my belly for nine months. I spent nine hours pushing him out into the world without pain relief -- just as I did with his sisters -- and so if any woman is entitled to enjoy the fruits of my labor, it's me.