Falling For My Mum Ch 01

This the second story to be inspired by and written for the sexy, wonderful CatMoore, writer of this parish. As it is written for her, it is in the first and second persons so I hope that readers will forgive that slightly unusual form. This isn't a stroke story and, though there will be plenty of sex and sexual situations in it, it is principally designed as a love story between a son and his mother so I hope readers won't be too disappointed that the protagonists haven't fallen into bed together by the end of the first page. I intend this to be a multi-part story following Tom and Cat on their journey so any constructive feedback, encouragement or suggestions will be hugely welcome.

*****

This, Cat, is the story of how we fell in love. You know part of it, of course, as it happened to you but I need to tell it. I want you to know it all, how I felt, why I did what I did, to remember how you felt. But I also need to write it to answer the question in my own mind of how a man can fall in love with his mother. I'm talking about lust, though that comes into it. Many men's first fantasy or sexual awakening is connected with their mother. This story isn't about that – you, and anyone else, can read plenty of examples of that sort of story. No, this is about answering how a grown man, with some experience of the world, who knows his own mind and has learnt to control himself and his hormones can fall helplessly, hopelessly, utterly in love with the woman who gave him life.

It's impossible for me to pinpoint a moment when it started. When falling in love with someone who you know really well, I don't think one can say 'that was it'. Instead it grows on you gradually until you realise that it's happened and you can't imagine why it took you so long to get it. There was a moment that kindled my overt sexual desire for you, but I'll come to that in due course and, besides, it wasn't that made me fall in love with you. Looking back I was already in love with you, I just didn't know it.

We were always close, you and I, from the very start. I had an older sister, Sara, but she was sufficiently older, by four years, for her not to be terribly interested in me. You, of course, as my mother, were always interested in me and we always had a close bond. This was reinforced by the fact that Dad's very busy and high-powered job meant that he spent so much time abroad, in the office or entertaining clients. He flitted in and out of my childhood, paying attention when he could and when he wanted, whereas you were always there and were naturally the parent to whom I was most close.

When I was sent to boarding school at thirteen, Dad's idea not yours, it was you who always accompanied me to and from school, who hugged me and wiped away my tears that first day when I was terribly homesick and trying to pretend that I was ok. If I close my eyes I can still remember the warmth and softness of that hug and your wonderful smell. I knew that I'd always be safe with you, that you would always look out for me and love me in a way that no one else could because you knew me better than anyone.

Throughout school we remained close. Whenever I rang home and Dad answered, which was quite rare, after a moment's small talk he'd always say "You'll want to speak to your Mum, then," and hand me over to you. It wasn't that I was odd, a Mummy's boy, who didn't participate in the sorts of things that boys at Public School do - sport, bunking off as much as one could, trying to get with girls - it was just that you were my best friend and the person I went to most often for advice. Of course I didn't tell you everything, what boy does, even to his best friend? But I knew that I *could* tell you anything if I wanted and you wouldn't judge me or get angry with me.

I got my first girlfriend at sixteen and you were so nice when she came to stay in the holidays. There was no sense that you were going to make life difficult for any girl I brought home which I know was a relief to me and to them, especially as subconsciously I had built you up so much to them. More than one of my girlfriends told me in break up rows or afterwards that they had felt they couldn't compete with you. It wasn't anything you had done, they said, but that they always felt second priority and second best in my mind. At the time, of course, I dismissed their accusations as ridiculous and just things that girls say when they break up with a guy or when he breaks up with them to be spiteful. Looking back now, I can see that they were right.

My male friends loved you and you always caused quite a stir when you turned up at pitch side to watch me play sport for my school or at the beginning and end of term. Whenever we discussed whose house to hold gatherings at, ours was always a favourite because, being teenaged boys, they wanted to gawp at you. I certainly don't blame them now and, while I can't say I liked it at the time, I did understand it.

You were in your late thirties and early forties then and, through a combination of golf, gym and tennis, very trim. Five foot seven in your stockings with shoulder-length flaxen blonde hair that looked beautiful when straight or when you'd put a curling iron through it, you were certainly a MILF, something my friends told me regularly. Piercing, mischievous, crystal blue eyes sat either side of a long nose which, in turn, was just above a small mouth which could break into the most winning smile. Your breasts were high, firm and always filled out whatever you were wearing in a most attractive way. I knew that you were not just pretty but properly sexy. I could see that but all through my teenaged years it never affected me very deeply. I may have had the odd erotic dream that involved you and a couple of times I sneaked into your underwear drawer but the former happens to nearly all guys when their minds are being flooded with hormones and the latter was about seeing and touching women's underwear rather than it being yours specifically.

As I grew up and as Dad's overseas trips grew more and more frequent, slowly our relationship deepened and became more equal. I could tell that you were often unhappy and you were able to lean on me more, not in a needy way but just in a way that made my support feel valued. I had outgrown the awkward teenaged phase where physical contact with family members, especially female ones, is to be avoided at all costs. We weren't obviously tactile but we were comfortable with hugs and sitting close by each other on the sofa.

I went to University in London, only 20 miles or so from our home in St Albans. I lived in Halls the first year and then in a student house in Peckham, South London, for the remaining two years of my degree. I got back home a couple of times a month, usually when Dad was away so that you didn't feel too lonely in that big house which I knew, for the most part, you'd never really liked. We'd make a day of it when I came home, go out together to the cinema, the shops or the pub for a meal and sometimes you'd come down to Town and we'd take in a show or go to a gallery together. Looking back now, they feel like our first 'dates'. That wasn't quite what they were then but it was more than just Mum-son time, we were friends hanging out together, deepening our connection and affection for each other.

I graduated and stayed living in London for one more year, moving in with Louise, my then girlfriend, while I started my first job, working for a Think Tank in Westminster. A year later, having done all the good things about living in London and having broken up with Louise, I asked you and Dad whether I could live at home and commute. It seemed a sensible way of saving money, it turned out to be a decision that would change our lives.

Moving back home as an adult opened my eyes to things that I had missed as a child and a teenager. Being there all the time made me realise just how much Dad was away and how neglected you had become. At least a dozen nights a month, you and I were alone for dinner. Very occasionally, when Dad was away, my sister Sarah came to stay for the weekend but mostly it was just us. I could see and, at night, occasionally hear how frustrated you were. Our rooms were just across the corridor from each other and, every so often, I could hear the tell-tale buzz of a vibrator and the low moans that accompanied you tending to your own needs. When Dad was back, it was very rare for me to hear you and him making love. In the first six months after I came to live at home again, I only heard you having sex once.

I began to worry that maybe my presence was inhibiting the two of you - it really was virtually impossible to keep it quiet, as you noticed the few times I brought a girl back. I started, therefore, to look for somewhere to rent nearby or in North London that wasn't too expensive, kept my commute down but ensured that I was close enough to come home regularly. As anyone who has any conception of the London and Home Counties housing market can imagine, such a search was fruitless and, anyway, you put it to a quick stop when you found out. You told me that my being home had had zero effect on your love life, that you and Dad had largely stopped having sex. Admitting that obviously upset you and we sat in the conservatory together for a long time, just holding each other, you resting your head on my chest as you cried.

I couldn't understand Dad at all. He had a beautiful woman here at home, still in her sexual prime, and yet he ignored you. I didn't think he was having an affair but he seemed to have thrown everything into his work and there was nothing left for anything else.

After that night where you opened up to me, my own love life started to dry up. Was it because I was subconsciously shutting myself off from other women because I was already falling for you? Perhaps, I just don't know. I was uncomfortable bringing girls home, not from anything you had said or done, but because first, I felt you needed me and second, because part of me was embarrassed by parading girls through the house in front of you when you and Dad's love life was so barren. It was stupid, of course, to feel that way, not normal but was again part of my growing attachment to you.

The lack of action meant that I started to use porn much more than I had before to satisfy my urges. Even on fairly mainstream porn sites it's had to avoid incest. I'd never paid any attention to such videos but one day, a month or so after our talk, I clicked on a step-mother video. I'd always liked MILFs & this was involving an actress I'd seen in a couple of mainstream porn films. At first, after my cum, I felt ashamed and deleted the history for that session. As I lay awake that night, however, fitful in my sleep the video came back to me, her words – "that's it baby, jerk it for Mommy...see Mommy's big tits...cum for Mommy" – ran through my mind again and again. Sitting up I reached for my laptop and the dark room was illuminated by the eerie blue light of the computer screen as I searched for the video again and then another, a different actress this time but the same theme, step-mother joi. I came before I'd got my tissue completely ready and I had to wipe the white drops from my duvet before sleep finally came.

Bit by bit, over the next few weeks, I was drawn further and further into the incest web. It was not yet drawn so tight, however, as to include you. I had striven hard and carefully to ensure that my incest fantasies were not 'real' fantasies but 'theoretical' ones. They weren't about you, but about the 'idea' of incest. This is what I told myself was in my mind as I searched the internet for videos, audio files and stories about incest. It won't surprise you, Cat, that my most intense focus was on mother son scenarios. I was fascinated by the intensity of such relationships, how a love so natural and celebrated could become closer, deeper, complete and yet draw such horror down upon it from society if it did take that direction.

The event that precipitated my final acceptance of my situation came from an unexpected act of generosity by Dad. He had bought a new laptop and asked whether I wanted his old one. It was still very good and much better than the one I had bought with my first pay cheque.

Dad handed it over casually before leaving for yet another business trip to New York. He had deleted his work files but a few days later I came across a folder marked 'Cat'. Urged on by something I can only now ascribe to Providence, I opened it and saw a bunch of sub-folders, all with various dates. The oldest was about seven years ago, the most recent from last year, a few weeks before I moved back. I opened each folder but they were all empty. Whatever was in them had been cleaned out by Dad as efficiently as everything else. Except not quite. A further sub-folder, named 'favourites' proved not to be empty at all.

Still not entirely sure what might be inside but, thanks to the dead end of each previous folder, being increasingly eager to know, I opened the folder and inside were around 30 jpeg files. All were of you. You in various stages of undress. I sat back in my chair, mouth open, feeling unable to move. I should have switched the computer off, shut it down and got out of my room, out of the house to clear my head. I didn't. Didn't do any of those things. Instead, after a few moments of inner struggle, I grasped the mouse and clicked on the first thumbnail to expand it.

You filled my screen, filled my eyes, filled my mind. The first picture was of you sitting on our stairs, dressed in a blue cashmere jumper with a row of pearls around your neck and a short black skirt and black heeled court shoes. Nothing outrageous about that, of course, except for the pose. Your right knee was drawn up and your left leg two steps lower than your right. The black skirt had ridden up to reveal not just the tops of your stockings but, in the case of your right leg, a generous expanse of creamy thigh and, at its apex, the tiniest flash of cream knickers with little dots on them. Your left arm was raised and your eyes cast down demurely which leant a touch of class to such a racy photo.

I stared at the photo, drinking you in, my Mum looking so sexy and so naughty, my mind struggling to compute what my eyes were telling it. Automatically, instinctively even, my hand went to my crotch and I feel my cock starting to harden in my jeans. Had Dad taken these pictures I wondered? He must have done, or why else would they be on his old computer? This must have been part of the attempts to 'spice things up' that you had mentioned to me. I don't know about Dad, but you looked pretty damned hot to me and that feeling only intensified as I clicked through more of Dad's favourites and they became spicier still. There was one of you, clearly from the same set as the first photo, of you lying on the leather sofa in the upstairs sitting room, staring out of the screen right through me, dressed in the spotted knickers and bra and stockings from earlier, your wonderfully toned stomach and sparkling belly button stud on display. Your eyes looked down the lens almost pleadingly at Dad, as if you were begging him to want you. How could he need any prompting, I wondered, when presented with this amazingly sexy woman?

Some photos were more wantonly sexual than others – a black and white one of you in just stockings, leg crossed, one breast visible, a cigar in your mouth and two glasses of wine on the table, and the 'fuck-you' confidence in your eyes was particularly arresting – but each was stunning and in each there were aspects of you that I recognised, things that the photos brought out but each also revealed something new, something visceral about your sexuality that I, as your son, had never been supposed to see.

As I started at those amazing breasts, topped by the delicate succulent nipples, and my hand unzipped my jeans and grasped my cock, was I jerking it to you as my Mum or simply to the beautiful Cat whose body was bared before me? Did it matter that they were the same? I knew I wasn't going to stop, that I had to cum imagining myself with this woman, in this woman, but, as I felt that orgasm approaching, I heard a voice, my voice, saying:

"Oh Mum, cumming for you Mum, want you so bad," and then I was cumming – cumming all over my hand, all over my jeans, a few drops even splashing your cheek on the screen as I couldn't control my spray.

I'd done it, then. I'd broken that final taboo in my mind. I'd masturbated to you, Cat, to my own other and had cum to her and for her. Immediately I felt terror at what I'd done. It wasn't shame strangely enough, I know that's what many people feel when they wank over their Mum, but not in my case. It was terror at finally admitting to myself that not only did I find you sexy but sexier than anything I had ever seen on the internet or in the flesh. That was partly because of how you looked but, deeper than that, it was because of who you are – a woman who has loved and nurtured me all my life, no matter what I have said or done, and who knows me better than anyone else ever could, better than I know myself. I knew, in that moment, that I had given my heart to you. Such a revelation is always a little frightening, I imagine, that one can invest your happiness so completely in someone else, but its terrifying when you know it's impossible and that, if you ever found out, you'd hate me for ever.

Then, as I stared more at the screen, I did feel shame, but not because of who you were but because of what I had done without you knowledge. I had, unknowingly, stumbled across images of immense intimacy that were not meant for me to see. I had betrayed that intimacy. I knew I had to delete the photos, they were yours and Dad's, not mine, but I also resolved to tell you about it because I didn't want that secret between us. That, I knew, would not be an easy conversation but I had to be honest if I were to retain your trust. I did delete the photos and decided to arise it with you tomorrow – 'if it were done, when 'tis 'twere well it were done quickly' to quote Macbeth.

The next morning was a Sunday and, as usual in the spring and summer months, you were planning to play tennis. You normally left before I was up, as Sunday was a bit of a 'duvet morning' for me, but today I made sure I was up in time to have breakfast together. By the time I came down you were tucking into a healthy half of grapefruit, sitting at the kitchen table. You were dressed in your tennis kit already, a white polo shirt with navy trimmings that clung possessively to your firm breasts and just revealed the outline of your sports bra underneath. You had a navy tracksuit top over the back of the chair, ready to put on when you left. Your long legs were crossed, thereby showing off your creamy thighs emerging from the short white tennis dress. A sporty MILF if ever I'd seen one. I'd seen you like this before, of course, many times but, while I'd always acknowledged how pretty you were, now it felt like you were calling to my innermost, primitive being, a being who wanted you for his own more than anything.

I managed to pull myself together and put some toast on. You looked up and smiled, those blue eyes softening.

"You're up early. Bed on fire is it?" You teased. I blushed, images of you in my bed flashing unbidden through my mind. You frowned. "Are you alright, Tom?" I buttered my toast and sat down, still saying nothing. "Tom?" You asked again, placing your hand over mine.

"Mum," I looked at you and then away.

"What is it darling?" You asked, now looking genuinely concerned, biting your lower lip in that adorable way you have.

"You know Dad gave me his laptop last week before he went to New York?"

"Yes, I told him you needed one and that, as he was getting a new one, he should pass it to you." I looked pleasantly surprised at this bit of news, Dad hadn't let that on at all.