A grateful thank you to an exceptional editor, Lunarosa, for assistance with style, grammar and theme.
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Maternal incest is a strange impulse.
A person you've loved deeply since his birth, one you've caressed, kissed and nurtured has grown into a strong, handsome young man.
The way he sometimes looks at you or the occasional hug that lasts a little too long instinctively warn he may be seeing you as a woman, not just his mother. Subconsciously the attention flatters you, makes you feel younger, more attractive.
Without conscious purpose, you pay closer attention to your appearance around the house. You welcome the intimacy of a casual touch or the stir in your stomach when his eyes remain a little too long on an exposed thigh!
This is the beginning of the spiral and this is the beginning of my story.
"Forty-something, the sagging years!"
That unpleasant little sentence fragment insinuated itself in my head Saturday morning as I was getting ready for my niece's wedding. I had been a bit despondent ever since the invitation made me realize that time was slipping past. My niece's marriage brought home the fact that I wasn't exactly a spring chicken anymore. In spite of the happy, celebratory atmosphere, I felt depressed and unattractive.
Naked after my shower, I saw an aging woman with large sagging breasts and a protruding belly gazing back at me from the mirror. With little effort I could twist enough for the mirror to verify the existence of crease lines at the bottom of my ample butt cheeks. Everything seemed to be going south, literally!
The contents of my lingerie drawer did little to lift my spirits. I never considered myself anything more than average, the daughter of a farmer, pretty but neither beautiful nor sexy. The drawer reflected my mediocre self image. It contained a sea of white cotton; cotton under-wired brassieres, full cut white cotton panties; even my garter belt was uninspiring white cotton. The few slinky items purchased over the years had been for my husband's pleasure, my role not much more than his mannequin.
I dressed in a garter belt, underwear and flesh colored hose, electing to go without a slip because it was very warm for early June. The cotton print dress was gathered at the waist creating a full, almost crinoline-like skirt that would block the light.
Thankfully, with the aid of under-wire and a fluffy skirt, the prim mirror image was a slight improvement over the naked lady. I turned my attention to my few vanities --- lips, nails and hair.
Nature had blessed me with thick, healthy, copper-red hair. It remains the feature I like most about me, although lately I've had to give the color a small assist now and then. My mouth is very full, and fortunately none of those little vertical lip lines have appeared. Both my mouth and well-manicured nails are usually painted red or pink. They clash with my copper mane, but my skin is pale and lightly freckled, softening the blow.
A final inspection before leaving revealed a mature, well maintained housewife and mother, modestly dressed. Red nails and lips were the only hint of an adventurous spirit.
"What youth has given, age taketh away." Another un-summoned thought reinforced the feeling of frumpiness.
Even after my husband offered up the obligatory compliment and Max, my son, said I looked 'hot' I still felt old and somehow ... over!
The ceremony was finished and the reception winding down; I was sitting on the clubhouse deck enjoying wine and conversation when my husband approached and announced he was wanted at the hospital and had to leave. I was left to find a ride home.
Max had ridden with my nephew Nick and four other friends. His car was full, but Nick offered to take me if I would sit on Max's lap.
"I've sat on your lap plenty of times," Max said, grinning. "Besides, it's only twenty miles."
I accepted, not giving it much thought other than what the police would say if we were stopped. We squeezed into Nick's top down, restored convertible with Max and me in the middle of the back seat, one young man on either side of us and three more on the front bench.
I sat squarely on Max's lap, the backs of my thighs pressing against the front of his, my bottom fully against his groin. I was leaning back against my son's chest and his arms were around my waist with hands clasped loosely over my belly.
As we reached highway speeds, the wind blew my flounced skirt up in my face exposing God knows what. I quickly pushed the skirt down. Max saw what was happening and clamped a hand on each of my thighs, just above the knee, to hold the skirt down. It was twilight but, judging by their expressions, the boys in the back seat were treated to a good view of my garter-belted upper thighs, if not my underpants. The rest of the trip they were very vigilant in observing the action of the wind on my attire.
Their interest in my exposed legs stirred a hidden desire to show them more. I quickly dismissed this foolish thought but my ego responded by telling me maybe I wasn't too closely related to the frumpy woman I had seen in the mirror that morning. I continued to monitor the young men from the corner of my eye and was rewarded by the knowledge that they both checked out my breasts and legs several times.
Off the freeway and into stop and go traffic, I became acutely aware of my soft, plump ass being jostled back and forth, up and down on my son's groin. When we stopped for a light I could feel his heat radiating through the thin material of my dress. I wished I had worn my slip. Son or not, he was a full grown man and I was spooned tightly against him. Max's hands absently massaged my lower thighs, heedless of the lack of wind. Against my better judgment I relaxed against Max, enjoying the ride, as a few small butterflies appeared in the pit of my stomach.
About two blocks from our home, I felt a new presence against my bottom. Could my own son be having an erection due to the closeness of his mother? The warmth radiating between our bodies, real or imaginary, seemed to increase in a heated wave. I didn't move a muscle until we stopped in our driveway. The car doors opened and one of my young admirers assisted me from the car, eyes never leaving my legs. Pushing myself off Max's lap, I again felt something probing the cleft of my bottom. A covert glance at the front of his suit pants confirmed my suspicions. My son had the beginning of an erection.
Conflicting feelings of relief and disappointment washed over me when Max announced his intent to continue on with his friends.
"Thanks for the ride, gentlemen; see you later, Max." My voice came across a little throaty.
Max's older sister, Heidi, was on a cross-country trip with a friend, so I would be alone in the house. I stood before the same bedroom mirror that was so cruel to me that morning, seeing that my windblown hair and wrinkled dress gave me a sort of used, even sluttish look. The image smiled. I felt lighter than I had for weeks. Young men, my son's age, had taken an interest in me. I had even aroused one of them with my closeness.
"What kind of a mother would take pleasure from exciting her own son?" I asked the reflection, guiltily.
In my husband Carl's den I fixed a double gin and tonic, then returned to the bedroom and removed my dress. Struggling to comb out the mass of copper tangles, I was aware of my bra-encased breasts jostling with the effort.
"How would you young gentlemen like to see these?" my mind teased.
I removed my underwear pants in front of the mirror and took a view of what I had to offer. I tried to see myself from the viewpoint of an eighteen-year-old hormone factory.
Overall my body was okay, not fat, but a little thicker here and there. An abundant derriere flared from a narrower waist in the classic 'pear' shape, accented now by the white garter belt. I made a mental note to buy some black lingerie.
After two children I had no discernable stretch marks. My belly blossomed slightly under the garter belt, but in my new frame of mind I saw it as an inviting fullness; a fullness sloping to the soft, curly, red hair hiding my moist, puffy mound.
My legs are sturdy but shapely, more like a cheerleader than a runway model. There is the beginning of some cellulite, but my thighs and hips appear fairly taut. When not wearing hose, a few tiny blue veins are visible. All in all I have 'nice' legs.
I removed my bra and let my titties swing free. I looked at my heavy breasts, with their pinkish brown nipples jutting from puckered areolas, and was reminded of the slang name, "fun bags." Yes, these could be big, fleshy fun bags. The thought of young men seeing me like this was having a positive effect on my self esteem, not to mention my libido.
The areolas stood out in stark contrast to the pale, lightly freckled flesh of my tits. The rounded breasts sagged toward either side of my stomach, displaying the ghost of some sub-surface veins and stretch marks.
Draining my drink, I thought, "They might not look as good as they once did, but I bet they could still stir some interest."
I finished undressing, turned out the light and slid, naked, between the cool percale sheets. My hand immediately sought the folds of my labia, now swollen and wet, the result of my daydreams. I found my pleasure center between the smooth, slippery petals.
I thought about the young men in the car and what they had seen when my skirt blew up. Would they masturbate tonight? What about the next time they saw me, would they remember? My orgasm built as I imagined the two boys undressing me. One boy was paying homage to my ass and the other weighing my tits in his hands.
As my climax started to boil over, the scene changed; I was rubbing against Max's erection while he cupped my breasts. I tried unsuccessfully to block the image as a second orgasm evolved into him holding me in his arms kissing me tenderly.
My excitement subsided, slowly replaced with the first tendrils of guilt. Tears sprang to my eyes. For God's sake, I just masturbated thinking about my own son.
