Dear Diary...

It was pure chance that I found it. I was in her room, looking for the phone charger that she'd borrowed from me, and that's when I'd discovered it. Now I was curious. It was at the back of a drawer, and it was locked. Had my Mother hidden it there because what was written in it was private?

It was a small notebook with a plain cover. As I was putting it back, the clasp sprang open, that startled me, and I nearly dropped it. So it wasn't locked. I thought about reading it, but that was wrong, so after closing the clasp I put it back where I'd found it.

Twenty minutes later my phone died. Where was that charger? I'd looked everywhere for it. I could search for it again, but I had a feeling that I'd just be wasting my time. My Mother must have it with her. What I was going to do instead, even though I knew that it was wrong, was to see what was written in that notebook.

It was now in my hand, but I was having second thoughts. If it was mine, and my Mother was to read it without my permission, I'd be livid. And that would be her reaction as well. However, to ease my guilty conscience, I told myself, that because she wasn't going to know, that would make it OK.

The first page was blank, as was the second one. I had to smile, all that time agonising over whether I should open it, and it hadn't even been used. I was about to put it back, when I turned over another page. In big letters were written, Constance Jones, and underneath it was a date. Jones was my Mother's maiden name, so she had written it before she was married, and a quick calculation with the date told me that it was done on her seventeenth birthday.

As I flicked through the pages, it amused me to read what my Mother had written when she was so young. The notebook consisted of unlined pages, and she'd used it as a diary. However, sometimes she'd gone days, and even weeks, without writing something.

It was mundane stuff, but to her, at the time, it must have been exciting. Then when she got to eighteen, the content changed. It was now all about boys.

'I think he likes me, I hope he does. He's so good looking.'

The last two words had been underlined several times in red ink. It was four pages, and a week later on, before she wrote more about the handsome boy that she'd had a crush on.

'John spoke to me today, and it gave me butterflies in my stomach. I want him, but does he want me? If my breasts were bigger he might ask me out.'

That made me laugh. I'd seen pictures of her at that age, and even then, her tits were impressively large.

I pride myself on being clever, and I have the academic qualifications to prove it, but now I'm not so sure, because it was several more pages, that were all about John, before I realised that he was my Father!

Eventually they were together, and their courtship was documented in her diary, with an honesty, that both surprised and excited me. It was time for me to close it and put it away, but I couldn't do that. I just had to read on.

I read about her first French kiss with him, and how much it had excited her. It was at her nineteenth birthday party. He was twenty three, so naturally he wanted more than that, but when he'd touched her breast she'd quickly put a stop to it. The rest of that diary entry was her agonising over it, and what she was going to do the next time he tried to fondle her tits. NO, had been written in large letters, but then it had been crossed out, replaced by an even more prominent, YES.

He had to wait a month before she let him, but it was worth the wait. She'd described in detail what had happened, and reading it gave me an erection.

'When his hands went under my t-shirt it excited me, but that was nothing compared to what he did next. My bra was tight on me, but he easily pushed it up, exposing my breasts. And then both his hands were on them. When he found my nipples I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.'

There was more, going onto a second page, but I stopped. Mother was due back anytime now. Catching me reading her old diary would be bad enough, but it could be even worse if she was to notice the large bulge in my trousers. That would be difficult to explain, and very embarrassing!

Stopping when I had was the right decision. I'd only just got to my room when I heard the front door opening. An hour later, she was calling me. It was time to eat.

For the next few days I kept thinking about her diary, but I didn't return to it. However, as time passed, it became an irritation, and I knew that I wasn't going to get any peace until I'd read more of it.

As I thumbed through the pages, looking for where I'd got up to, my heart was pounding in my chest and my cock was starting to grow. When I found it, I read it again, and then, full of anticipation, I turned it over. I wasn't disappointed!

'For half an hour I let him have them. He even sucked on my nipples. I only stopped him when his hand went between my legs. My pussy was soaking wet, and I desperately wanted him to finger me. However, if he was to do that, and then try to put his cock inside me, I just knew that I wouldn't be able to say no.'

The following page was dated the next day, and it contained just a single sentence.

'WE DID IT!'

So she hadn't held out for long, and it must have been as she'd suspected. After having his fingers inside her pussy, she'd eagerly accepted his cock.

The next pages were disappointing, definitely an anticlimax. Nothing sexual, just lengthy paragraphs describing her love for him, and what she wanted their life to be like after they were married. That was presumptuous of her, when she'd written it they hadn't been dating for long. But she was right, they did marry, though not for another three years.

They'd been happy together, until his life was tragically cut short in a car accident a year ago. Both of us miss him dearly, and we are still coming to terms with our loss.

-

Occasionally, I think about her diary, remembering what she'd written in it, but I have no desire to read it again. However, six months after discovering it, I had to go into her room for something, and I was surprised to see it on her bedside table. Next to it was a pen. That made me curious. Perhaps to help her get over my Father's death she was writing about him again.

At the end of it was a new entry, dated only a week ago.

'I want him to kiss me, not tenderly, but passionately. I want to feel his tongue in my mouth, and I want his hands on my breasts. My pussy is his, to do with whatever he wants.'

That brought a tear to my eye. She was longing for him. I just hoped that writing this about him had given her some comfort.

'My pussy aches for him. Just thinking about him makes my juices flow, so much, that it stains my panties.'

I was now wishing that I hadn't picked it up. But as upsetting as reading it was, I couldn't put it down. I was going to finish it, even if it made me cry.

'My fingers give me some satisfaction, but not enough, and afterwards I still feel frustrated. It should be him fingering me, him rubbing my clit, and him making me come. But I know that's wrong.'

It wasn't wrong, but thinking about him in that way was torturing her, so she should stop doing it. As difficult as it would be, she should let him go. It was time for her to find herself a new man. She was still an attractive woman, with enough attributes to excite most men, even those that were a lot younger than her. In fact, if she wasn't my Mother then I'd definitely be interested in her.

'I know that his big cock will fill me up, just how I like it. And when he fucks me hard I'll scream out his name.'

I inherited a lot from my Father. I have his big nose, and my ears stick out just a bit too much, but I forgive him for that, because I got something else that I'm immensely proud of. A cock that gets admiring glances from other men when I'm in the locker room. It's definitely a big swinging dick.

'I can't help it. I want my Son to fuck me.'

I read it again, and then as read it for a third time, the diary slipped through my fingers, falling onto the bed. I stared at it in disbelief. My Mother was ready to move on, in fact, she had somebody in mind.

It was me!

When I left her room I was in a daze. I had a lot to think about. However, half an hour later, it didn't seem so bad. Most people have fantasies, especially sexual ones. It doesn't necessarily mean that they want to act them out. I should just forget about it. But that was easier said than done.

For the next few days, whenever I was alone in the house, I checked her diary to see if she'd written any more. It was back to being in its hiding place, and disappointingly, there was nothing. Perhaps, by writing about it, she had got it off her chest. However, on the fifth day I hit pay dirt. She'd written something that morning before going to work.

'I've made my mind up, and I'm not going to change it. I want him, I need him, and I'm going to get him. STARTING TOMORROW!'

In the evening, while we were eating together, I kept glancing at her, trying to get some indication of what was going to happen. I learnt nothing. She was her usual self, an attentive Mother looking after her Son.

I was the first one up. When Mother joined me I was halfway through my breakfast. Today, for some reason, she wasn't dressed for work, instead she was wearing her bathrobe. That got my attention. While she prepared her food my eyes were constantly on her, noticing everything. There was something different about her, but at first I couldn't put my finger on what it was. Then I understood. When she was walking, her hips were subtly swaying, and her upper body was moving in such a way that it was making her large breasts even more prominent. She was showing off her body. I was the only other person with her, so it was for my benefit.

Because of what she was wearing, and how she was acting, I was expecting something to happen. Perhaps her bathrobe might 'accidentally' open up, so that her breasts were exposed. And that would be an opening for me to exploit. When that, and anything else of that nature, didn't happen, I wasn't sure how to feel about it. I was in two minds. I wanted to be intimate with her, but that would be wrong. Now I would never know if I was weak-willed or not.

Before going to bed, I made a solemn promise to myself that I would not, under any circumstances, read her diary again. But in less than twenty four hours I'd broken it.

'The way he was looking at me sent shivers down my spine.'

That made me wince. I should have known that, no matter how careful I'd been, I couldn't fool her.

'My nipples were tingling and my pussy was dripping wet, but I couldn't pluck up the courage to act. But I'm going to try again.'

The next day I was up early, and I was expecting her to do that. I entered the kitchen full of hope, but when I saw that she was fully dressed, I was disappointed. Perhaps tomorrow she would be in her bathrobe again. She wasn't, but the day after that, she was!

As before, her body language was sexual. She was showing me what she had, but the bathrobe was still on, and it looked as if it was going to stay like that. I wanted it off, but there was nothing I could do about it, it was up to her. Or was it? I'd suddenly thought of something. A way of giving her a helping hand. However, I needed to be bold, and I was going to be, because as they say, faint heart never won fair lady.

It was a performance worthy of an Oscar. Not just the execution of it, but how I reacted after I'd done it. I'd deliberately spilt my coffee onto her lap, but I'd made it look like an accident. Then, while looking both horrified and embarrassed, I'd apologised profusely. For my plan to work, I now needed to take control of the situation, and to do it quickly, while she was still shocked by what had happened.

As I helped her up from her chair, I said, with authority, "It needs to go into the washing machine."

"'I'll go upstairs and take it off."

"No time for that, it needs to go in now. Any delay and the stain might not come out."

Before she could say anything, I'd opened up her bathrobe, and then I was taking it off her shoulders. It fell to the floor. I quickly picked it up.

While taking it from me, she said, "It will be quicker if I do it."

It was only after she'd done it, that she was self-conscious about what she was wearing. And so she should be, it was very revealing. She was standing in front of the washing machine, facing me, in just her bra and panties. The obvious thing for her to do was to go to her room and get dressed. However, I wanted her to stay in the kitchen with me. That was a possibility, but it would depend upon what I said next, and how I said it.

"I'll make us both another coffee," and then I calmly added, in a way that made it sound unimportant, even though it was crucial to my plan, "Don't bother dressing. You're in your underwear, but it's only like being in a bikini."

She wasn't convinced, but then she smiled. That's when I knew that she was going to stay with me.

For some women, that might be true about them being similar. But not for my Mother. Her bikini can only be described as modest. The top covers most of her large breasts, so there's hardly any cleavage to see, and the bottom part is so big, it would only take a small amount of additional material to turn it into a pair of shorts. So how different from this is the underwear that she is now wearing? In a word, very.

It's a miracle that her bra is able to contain her tits. The cups are small, only just covering her nipples. And as for her panties, it's beyond skimpy. This isn't comfortable underwear, there is only one reason why a woman wears it, it's to excite her lover.

And her lover is what my Mother must want me to be!

She didn't leave the kitchen after finishing her coffee, she stayed to wash the dishes, and to do some other chores.

Initially, after taking her bathrobe off, I'd resisted the urge to stare at her. However, I did look at her as much as I could without making it too obvious. And even though she'd showed no signs of wanting to leave, she wasn't completely comfortable. She was more like a shy teenager than what she really was, a forty five year old mature woman. But it wasn't long before all of that changed.

Now, without any subtlety, I was staring at her big tits and cute arse. With the same intensity as a thirsty man in the hot sun looking at a cold beer. And not caring if she noticed. She was most definitely noticing. All shyness had gone. She was a different person, one who was bolder. Moving and acting in ways that best displayed her body.

I was excited, almost to fever pitch, and my throbbing cock could not be any bigger. I wanted her tits, I wanted to finger her, but most of all I wanted to fuck her. However, unless one of us was to do something that would make it more than her performing, and me watching, none of that would happen. And because I was worried that she might be reluctant to be the one that made the first move, I decided to act.

She was at the sink, with her back towards me, washing the dishes. But that was just to give herself an excuse for leaning forward so that her bottom would stick out. To make it even more interesting for me, she'd made sure that her legs were more apart than they should be.

It only took four steps to get to her, and she hadn't heard those footsteps, because when I said, "I'll help you," it startled her. Then she did something that I wasn't expecting, something that made me gasp. She bent over even more. In case I didn't understand what that meant, she made what she wanted me to do to her, even clearer, by stepping to the side so that her legs were now open even wider.

I didn't hesitate, while standing close behind her, my right hand went for her tits, and at the same time, the left one went for her pussy. I quickly found her nipple, and she uttered a low moan. Then, when I rubbed her between her legs, she continued to moan, but now it was louder.

I pride myself on being a skilled lover. I take my time, slowly bringing my partner to the boil. But not today. I was like a teenager whose eagerness had got out of hand. After roughly pushing her bra up, I was quickly pulling her panties to the side. She then got three of my fingers deep inside her wet pussy. It should have been too much for her, but the noise she made said pleasure rather than pain. And when I started fucking her with them, it became clear to me that it wasn't going to take much to make her come. Within a few minutes she would climax. But I was wrong, it wasn't minutes it was only seconds.

It took me by surprise, and probably her as well, because she shouted out, "Oh no!"

As it surged through her body she held onto the sink so tightly, that her knuckles went white. When it eventually subsided, she slumped forward, her head almost going into the water. That's when I removed my fingers.

When she'd recovered, she stood up. With her back still towards me she said, "I need to get ready for work."

Then, without looking at me, she hurried out of the kitchen. I followed her, but only so that I could go to my room. As soon as I got there I quickly took my trousers and boxers off, and then I lay on my bed. My cock was so hard it was hurting. I desperately needed. to come. I did, after only a few strokes. I got some pleasure from it, but it was nothing compared to what it should have been. I'd spurted into a tissue when I should have been emptying my balls into my Mother's sweet pussy!

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, with it I would have done things differently. Before pulling on her plump nipple, and definitely before fingering her, I would have got my cock out. If I had, then I would have been able to fuck her.

I was still in my room when she left. She always shouts out goodbye as she's leaving, but not today. That was worrying.

When she returned from work it was as if nothing had happened. However, there was some tension between us, and it was like that for a couple of days. But by the weekend we were back to normal, and by the end of it I was questioning if it had actually happened. Was it just a figment of my imagination, or perhaps a vivid dream?

-

Believe me when I say that I wasn't looking for it when I went into her room. I'd stupidly lent her my phone charger again, and of course, she hadn't bothered to return it. It wasn't in her room, but her diary was, and the temptation to read it was too much for me. As I'd hoped, she'd written something about that fateful time in the kitchen.

'I thought that he wasn't going to do anything. I could see the lust in his eyes while he was looking at me, but he was just sitting there. I'd almost given up hope, then he crept up behind me. His hand on my breast felt wonderful, and when he touched my pussy I almost fainted.'

There was more, but I didn't want to read it. What we'd done was in the past, and it should stay there. So I closed it. But I was only fooling myself. I did want to read it, every word of it, over and over again. And I didn't want it to stay in the past.

'I was so excited when he thrust his fingers deep into me that it almost made me come. I then didn't last long, climaxing quickly, but it was my BEST ONE EVER.'

That was nice to read, but the next part wasn't. It was her saying that it must never happen again. Even though she had enjoyed it more than she had ever thought was possible, it was wrong to do such things with her Son.

It then became a normal diary, with an entry for each of the days since I'd made her come. Those pages didn't contain anything that was sexual. They were all about her day, what she'd done at work and at home.

As I walked back to my room I thought about what might have been, and that was depressing. Groping her tits, and having my fingers briefly in her pussy, might be enough for a teenager, but I was twenty one years old. I expected to get more than that.