One afternoon when I had just turned twenty and I was hanging out at my girlfriend's apartment while she was at work, I had a dream, maybe a half-awake fantasy, that I was having sex with my own mother.
I didn't know why the dream came to me, except that my girlfriend and I had had a big fight that morning and talking to my mom about it had made me feel better, but I went with it. I felt my cock get hard and without waking up I pulled my sweatpants and my underpants off, kicked them away, and leisurely started stroking myself.
It was a nice fantasy, it felt more like a memory than a fantasy, of bending her over the bed in the back bedroom and fucking her between her fat middle-aged thighs and pushing into her wet, waiting pussy. It felt incredible.
The truth was I desperately wanted to feel that feeling NOW, for real. I slowly stroked my cock into complete hardness and felt the need building in me for sex, but my girlfriend was gone and angry at me, and there was nothing to do but jerk off again, and again, and again, until she came back and we made up.
Then I heard a key in the lock of the front door. AH! She was back! Even through my closed eyelids I could tell it was still daylight outside, which meant she'd come back early, probably wanting what I wanted, thinking how much more fun life was with me inside her than without... and I'd be more than happy to oblige, no hard feelings, only a hard dick...
I heard the lock click and, keeping my eyes closed, I slipped my fingers around the base of my hard dick so she could see my cock standing straight up, waiting for her. I heard her come in, heard the door close, heard her move into the living room and then stop.
My eyes were still closed and I was enjoying the sight I must have been making for her. I smiled and jiggled my hand a little bit to make my dick sway back and forth, and waited to feel a hand or a pair of lips close around my big hard penis, and I would know I was forgiven.
"Oh my god."
That was NOT my girlfriend's voice. I opened my eyes and standing in the middle of the living room was... someone I'd never seen before. A young woman, about nineteen or twenty, with dark hair, shorter than my girlfriend, shapely and attractive with bright big eyes and full lips, dressed in a simple green knee-length frock commonly called a maternity dress, called that because the women who wear them are usually expecting a child, as obviously was the woman standing before me, with three large bulges in front of her, one big bump that was a very pregnant stomach, and two big bumps above that one that were her breasts.
Staring at her I realized that she was somehow familiar to me. I HAD seen her before, somewhere. Maybe not in person, but I'd seen a picture of her, wearing that same maternity dress and that same bouffant hairdo and those same teardrop-lens eyeglasses. Where had I seen her before?
She stood in the center of the living room, and even bigger than her stomach were her eyes, staring saucer-like at my own sizeable bulge, her beautiful bright-lipsticked mouth hanging open like a barn door.
For a moment: nothing. Nobody moved, nobody spoke, nobody breathed. Then the woman did breathe, gasping loudly for air as she stepped back and almost fell over. At the same time I quickly sat up and grabbed a throw pillow on the couch to hide my erection, which it did poorly, so I grabbed another throw pillow, and another. I turned beet-red and she turned bleach-white.
"Oh GOD I'm sorry!" I cried out, feeling so much blood rush to my head that I could have passed out right there. "I'm sorry I'm SO SORRY," I insisted.
The young woman sat down heavily in the chair next to the television, still staring at the spot where my dick had been sticking up into the air, her eyes still bugged out, her mouth still dropped wide open. She didn't say a word.
"I'm really really really really sorry," I said again, waiting for my brain to work. Again we were both silent for a minute, and then my brain finally did start to work. Why was she so familiar?
And, more importantly, why was she HERE? "Wait a second---who ARE you?" I asked. "I think you're in the wrong apartment. This is....this is my girlfriend's apartment. Her name is Angela---"
The woman swallowed, and gasped, "No, I know. I know. I, uh, I'm... Angela's neighbor. I, I live upstairs. We're friends. She gave me a key." She held up the key. "I thought she was gone, I saw her... um, leave this morning."
"Oh."
"I... I didn't know anyone was here. I... I'm sorry to, uh, barge..."
I shook my head, holding the pillows tight around my midsection. "No, please, I'M sorry. I'm so sorry you saw... what you saw. I'm really sorry."
"Well, no, I mean, I should have knocked first. I'm so embarrassed."
"YOU'RE embarrassed?!?" I said, and suddenly we were looking each other in the eyes and we burst out laughing together. We laughed so hard we cried, and it released all of the tension in the room. I sat back on the couch, accidentally dropping one of the pillows but quickly grabbing it back.
The woman also relaxed and settled back in her chair, and her legs spread just enough that, with the help of the sun shining in through the window, I could clearly see that she wasn't wearing any panties. She was wearing a bra, from the size of the straps a pretty heavy-duty bra, but I could still see faint impressions of her nipples through the fabric.
We fell back to silence, smiling at each other, and finally I cleared my throat and said, "So, uh... were you here to get something, or...?"
She quickly sat up again, and the smile faded. "No. Oh, oh no, not at all. I'm... I'm just... I don't have a real reason to be here. I'm sorry to disturb you." She stood up. "I should go."
"No, please don't leave," I said a little too insistently, and she stopped. "I mean, of course you can leave if you WANT to, I just mean, you don't HAVE to. I'm not doing anything special."
The absurdity of that statement struck us both at the same time and she laughed again, and I could feel my face turn red again. I swallowed and tried one more time. "Well, I mean... uh..."
"No, it's okay," she said. "I know what you mean. It's not a big deal." And then the absurdity of THAT statement struck us, and we laughed yet again, and it was her turn to blush.
But finally she did sit back down, and smoothed her hair back, and her knees parted just enough that I could see a glimpse of her pussy again. That secret intimacy, she's seen mine and now I see hers, caused my loins to stir once again, and I clutched the pillows tighter around myself.
"Well anyway," she said, crossing her legs and hampering my view, "my name is Lori."
Maybe you're ahead of me already. Maybe you're not. But I was not expecting that; I was gobsmacked. Lori was my mother's name. And more than that, it suddenly struck me with the force of a thunderbolt from Mount Olympus that I knew who this woman was.
This was my MOTHER, twenty years ago, when she was nineteen. I HAD seen a picture of her looking exactly like this, wearing that dress and that hairdo and those glasses. The picture of that beautiful young woman had stared down at me on the wall of my bedroom since I'd been a boy. It was a picture of her when she was pregnant... with ME.
I stammered, "I'm... I'm Paul."
"It's nice to meet you, Paul," she said. And I realized I knew her sweet voice.
"It's nice to meet you too," I said, and we smiled at each other a bit nervously, considering the circumstances of our acquaintance, and then I said, "Hey, listen, um, I'm gonna go put some clothes on---"
"No don't!" she said. "You don't have to, really," she said, laughing to herself. "I mean, you know, whatever, I mean it's fine, I really don't, um, MIND or anything. Whatever you want to do."
She shrugged and smiled such a sweet, sincere smile that I knew she actually didn't mind, which was very interesting, but I said I'll just go put on a pair of shorts and she said okay and closed her eyes and I bolted for the back bedroom. I put on shorts and a teeshirt and came back to the couch. Her sweet smile remained.
After a minute I said, "So... what did you mean when you said you don't have a real reason to be here? I mean..."
"Oh, well, uhm..." She paused, seeming to consider whether or not to tell me, and then she shrugged her tiny shoulders and said, "Well, sometimes I come here to get away. Your girlfriend, Angie, she gave me the key a few months ago and said I could come here when she's gone."
"Oh," I said. "To get away from what?"
"Well..." She blushed again, and looked down, her hands unconsciously smoothing the material over her extended belly. "I, uh..."
"Listen, it's okay, you don't have to tell me."
"No, I don't mind telling you, it's just..."
"Really personal?" I suggested.
"Well, yes, but... I feel like I can trust you, Paul. I just have that feeling. You know?"
I smiled. "Well, you already know all MY secrets, so..."
This made her laugh, and her face lit up when she laughed with such spontaneous beauty that I wanted to tell her then and there that I loved her. "That's a very good point," she giggled. "Okay, well, I come here to Angie's apartment sometimes because I need to get away from my apartment, because... well, I have three children, one ten year-old boy from my husband's first marriage, and a five year-old boy and a three year-old boy, and as you can see I'm expecting another, and I already know it's going to be another boy, and... and I have a husband who isn't very nice to me, and so this is a place I can go to get a little break from all that. The girl who lives next door to me comes over to babysit sometimes, and I come down here and just... relax. That's all. Just to have a little time to decompress, or whatever they say. You know?"
Another thunderbolt from Mount Olympus. OF COURSE I knew what she was talking about. She was talking about my much older half-brother Larry, and my two older brothers Darryl and Darren. And the husband who wasn't very nice to her was my father.
I nodded. "I understand." I wondered whether I had the right to ask, and decided I didn't, but then I decided to ask anyway. "What do you mean, your husband isn't very nice to you? Do you mean he... does he hit you?"
"Oh no, nothing like that," she insisted. She was quiet for a moment. "I mean, not really. Not when he's sober. And not even then, not really. He hardly ever drinks." I knew that was a lie, but I kept my mouth shut.
She went on. "He doesn't hit me or anything. Actually... actually he hardly ever touches me at ALL, to be totally honest. Just, you know, sometimes he goes out with the guys and gets drunk, and then he comes home, and then, well, next thing you know, here comes another baby boy." She took a deep breath. "And then of course it's nine months of not touching me, because pregnant women are disgusting."
"Oh my god, I'm sorry. Jesus."
