Many thanks, once again, to tangentjoker for editing this story.
This story is about incest and contains an episode of non-consent sex.
Parts of this story are from my own experience. A woman I loved had the same hang-ups as the mother in this story. I wish I had handled it better.
The rest of the story is fiction; it is not an autobiography.
I raped my mother, that's how it all began. I threw her down on her bed. I shoved my hard cock into her pussy. I fucked her hard. I plunged my stiff prick into her.
She was crying. Even as she, unwillingly, started to respond to my thrusts. The sobs and tears on her face did not deter me. I pumped my cum into her, into her hot cunt.
I had come home early from work. It was a summer job between graduation from high school and the start of college. I found my best friend, we had been buddies for years, in bed with my mother. Both naked, arms and legs wrapped around each other, kissing passionately. She had carelessly left her bedroom door open.
I went berserk. I told him to get out. I chased him from the bedroom. I threw his clothes after him. I watched, in a rage, as he fumbled into his pants. I pushed him out the back door to finish dressing in the yard.
I went back to my mother's bedroom. She had put on a robe. I found her standing at the bedroom door, distraught. I pushed her back into the room. That's when I raped her.
I left her on the bed, sobbing. I went to the kitchen. I found the whiskey bottle we kept in the cupboard. I poured a big drink, took a sip, then dumped the rest out. It wouldn't have helped.
I went back to the bedroom. She was still on the bed, lying on her side curled up, her face buried in her pillow. I could hear muffled sobs.
"Get up!" I told her. "We need to talk."
I went back to the kitchen. My rage was starting to subside, but not by much.
It was an hour before my mother appeared. Her robe was belted and closed to her neck. She sat opposite me at the table, silently.
"Would you like a drink?" I asked.
She nodded, still silent. She was looking down at the table, not at me. I fixed her a drink, a strong one, and brought it to her. I was a lot calmer. The wait had helped me over the worst part of the white knuckled rage. My emotions, however, were a mess of resentment, smoldering anger and self-pity. Overlaying everything was fear. Fear, not about the consequences of my actions, rather fear for myself. Fear about my reaction. The fact was I had gone off the deep end.
We sat, silently, for what seemed like hours. I finally forced myself to speak. "I shouldn't have done that."
She hadn't lifted her gaze from the table. She kept her eyes averted from me. I brought her another drink. She took a big swallow, her eyes still averted.
"I'll leave if you want me too," I said into the silence.
She looked up at me. A startled expression on her face. She broke down again, sobbing uncontrollably.
"No! Not you, too. You can't leave me, you're all I have." Her speech was broken, disjointed. I had trouble deciphering what she was saying through her sobs. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." I was able to make out.
I stood. I went to her. I put my hand on her back. I rubbed her. I tried to soothe her. She turned to me, still seated, threw her arms around me, and pressed her face against my belly. She was wracked with tears as I helped her to her feet. She threw her arms around my neck, buried her face against my shoulder, and stayed that way as the sobs subsided.
"Why don't you lie down, Mom," I spoke softly to her, my rage had turned to shame and worry. Worry for her. I led her to her bedroom and helped her lie down. I sat on the side of the bed. I rubbed her shoulders and back until she seemed to doze off. I left her then. I looked in on her an hour, or so, later. She was sleeping.
I'm Edward, usually called Ed. I was eighteen years old. 6-1". 190 pounds. I was well built, but not very athletic. I worked after school, so I didn't have much chance to play team sports. Actually, I wasn't much of a team player, anyway. I did do some distance running. I was planning on college in the fall. But I didn't plan on any athletic activities there.
I had never been very successful with the girls at school. I was very shy, and the girls most interesting to me were interested in the jocks. I was almost a virgin. Maybe that is what made me berserk. I wasn't getting laid, at all, and my best friend was fucking my mother.
I only had a few friends while in high school. I now I had one less. By the way, I chased him down the next day. I made it very plain to him that if I heard anything about my mother there would be severe consequences. He knew me well enough to take it seriously.
My mother's name was Elizabeth. For friends she was Beth. She was an attractive woman, but not beautiful. She was beautiful to me, though. At age 38, she was 5' 5" and slim, weighing about 120 pounds. She has a nice butt and grapefruit sized boobs. Her silky, dark brown, hair was usually worn shoulder length. It had a nice wave. Her face was pleasant. All the parts were nicely proportioned. She was a friendly person with lots of friends.
Mom had been divorced for over five years. She had been devastated when my father left her. She hadn't thought their marriage was in so much trouble. The breakup came as a complete surprise to her.
I still got along ok with my father, but we rarely discussed his marriage to my mother. We rarely talked about my mother, either, except on a few occasions. I visited him regularly. He took an active interest in my education and other aspects of my life, too.
My mother had a lot of emotional problems after the breakup. It was a couple of years before she pulled herself together, got a job, and started to live life again. During the period immediately after the breakup, she doted on me. At first I was put off by all the attention. However, my father told me I should watch out for her, give her love.
"She's having a hard time," he told me, "don't act like you are rejecting her." I think my father still cared a lot for her. It made the split harder for me to understand.
My father's words came back to me as I sat in the kitchen after getting my mother to rest. My mind was still a mess. Disjointed thoughts raced through my mind. Love for my mother. Shame for myself. Still, the smoldering anger. It was getting late when I finally ate a sandwich and went to bed. I looked in on my mother. She still seemed to be asleep.
I laid in bed and dozed off and on. I had lots of trouble getting to sleep. I was dozing when I felt Mom get in bed with me. I lifted my head up to look at her. She still had her robe on, closed to the neck.
"I don't want to be alone," she said, "please hold me." I put my arm over her. She snuggled up to me. "I'm sorry," she said again. I was the one who should be saying that. We both fell asleep after a while.
I got up for work quite early. I considered calling in sick, but decided not to. Mom was usually an hour later than me.
I showered then went to my room to dress. As I was putting my clothes on, I saw my mother's eyes open, watching me. I sat on the edge of the bed and put my hand on her shoulder. "Are you ok this morning? I asked.
"I think so," she replied, "thank you for helping me."
I almost cried. "Please forgive me, Mom."
