It's the Heat

When I felt that solid, pulsing pole pressing against the thin cotton material of my damp shorts, I knew that we were crossing a tenuous, taboo line. Those warm strong hands that had begun by gently massaging my tired shoulders had gradually shifted position. The left hand deftly worked down my spine, it's rough fingers adding pressure as it progressed, until now, he was slowly bending my fragile body over the counter. I felt his wandering right hand straddle my hip and slip under the front of my loose tank top, raising the goose flesh on my jittery torso.

I was petrified. Did I truly want this? My nervous mind kept whispering "No," but my salacious uterus began a steady drum beat that echoed in my chest. I knew that this could prove to be a life-changing event but I could not move. My insides were sending signals to my outsides.

His roaming fingers had eased their way inside the waist band of my sodden undies and with the downward force of his large hand I could sense both the shorts and panties sliding over my round butt, exposing the twin cheeks to view. Nervous perspiration broke out on my body and a helpless ripple shuddered my entire frame. I could see his sexy, powerful image reflected in the chrome of the appliances on the counter. I knew that he had been bare chested but at what point his own shorts came off, I couldn't say. As my squirming, moist backside became revealed, it was obvious that the warmth of his erection on my jiggly butt, was produced by skin-to-skin contact. I melted against the cool porcelain.

The afternoon started as a frenetic summer day with my flustered mind resorting to the safe routine of washing the day's dishes. I had left a few from the previous evening so I needed to get them done before they stacked up in this heat. It was another steamy August day, already ninety degrees at noon, and we couldn't afford air-conditioning. And more physical heat was being added. We both were showing the strain of another cloudless day.

As one day melted into the next and the thermometer climbed, the air became oppressive. We were in survival mode. All inhibitions seemed trivial. We were family, so it didn't seem so shocking to only dress for modesty and to say anything that might lighten the mood, even off-color sexual innuendos. Every day, leaving the house meant layering-on uncomfortable clothes and facing the blistering sun, only to return to this sauna. But the true heat would actually emanate from a taboo zeal and a hidden lust smoldering just below the surface. Staying in brought-out the raw passion that lingered just beneath the surface. It was complicated and confusing.

I was a single mom who worked for a temp-agency, this week I was a faceless secretary in some big insurance firm. My nineteen year old son was unemployed.

His name is Ted. He is tall and strong and has a job pending with a construction company. But we've been in the middle of a blistering heat wave and I didn't blame him for not wanting to start yet. He has blue eyes and a white-blonde crew cut, a lantern jaw and broad shoulders. And lately, I have been studying his muscular, sexual frame with a little more of an ogling eye than a mother should. I couldn't help myself, it's the heat.

My name is Katy. I am almost forty and never married. I also have blue eyes with long blonde hair, a pouty smile, and I've been told, a seductive figure, (most recently by my son.) My slender body is curvy in the right places; my hips are about a 36, having borne only one child and I stand 5'9" on long, toned legs that are often encased in sheer hose and high heels, my boobs are just a B-cup which allows me to forego a bra with still a hint of a jiggle, on these brutally hot days. And besides, my mother always said that, "more than a handful is selfish."

On the morning when Teddy began rubbing against my body, I broke-out in a fine glow of perspiration that gave my tanned torso the look like I had been dipped in warm butter. His hot sweaty hands ruggedly caressed my shivering flesh, sending alternating chills and hot tremors throughout my anatomy. My pert nipples sprouted at his approach and succumbed to his touch. My legs wobbled under the incestuous appeal of the taboo thoughts coursing through my brain. I realize that no mother should ever allow these incestuous thoughts to take hold, but once they're in your head and they occupy your waking and sleeping hours, they are difficult to fight.

I understand that this entire scenario should not excite me as it does or cause that warm, sensual moisture between my legs to roil and flow so easily. At any point in the past weeks I could have told him in no uncertain terms, that the leering, bright blue eyes that stole so greedily along my glistening body were entirely inappropriate. I should not have laughed as readily when he joked that he could see the outline of my breasts under the clingy, damp fabric of my light tees. Or that the sticky, humid conditions resulting in my perky nipples constantly being abraded by the moist material, seemed as he said, "to make you look like you're in a perpetual state of arousal." But one seemingly harmless thing led to another, and then an avalanche of forbidden frustrations came tumbling down on me.

Instead I indelicately pranced around semi-naked, flaunting my lusty body. Unknowingly, (I like to believe) teasing and tempting a virile young man who was cooped-up with me. I thought for the most part then, that the sexual tension in the room was all in my vivid, lurid imagination. But the not-so-subtle clues and the pointed innuendos were hanging in the still air like the humidity.

I usually just smirked-off the lewd remarks as laughably-dirty, but playful banter between a grown strapping man and his unwed sheltered mother. It probably didn't help that I felt so comfortable in his presence, that my hand would unconsciously slip under my shirt, to wipe away the dripping beads of sweat from beneath my tits and to fluff the dank cottony material of my halter-tops, to air-dry the wet contours of my chest. Possibly making it seem that as he was watching or talking to me, that I was tweaking my pointy nipples or fondling my loose-hanging breasts, giving him the idea that he was turning me on. These harmless gestures probably happen anywhere that two adults of the opposite sex are thrown together in close quarters at uncomfortably hot temperatures. Really, it's not as if I were leading him on. So I imagined.

For a few weeks; we took to lounging around the house wearing as little clothing as possible, moving lazily, liberally dousing ourselves in cold water and reclining infront of the fan in very inelegant positions. More than once I spied him sitting nearly spread-eagled, one leg carelessly draped over the arm of a chair in hopes of circulating some cooling breeze to his damp pelvic region. At these times I could see his sweat-tinged, matted brownish-blonde pubic hairs. And sometimes while his head lulled back and his drowsy eyes closed, the wrinkled pink shaft of his meaty cock, with it's thick, darker-red mushroomed cap, would dangle from the leg of his shorts, like a coiled snake warming itself in the sun.

Maybe I should have loudly cleared my throat or suggested that he assume a more conservative pose. Or I could have demurely looked away. I could even have slipped out of the room to act on my impure thoughts in private. But my own lewd fantasies held me in place and led to ever-more mischievous ideas.

Recently I have noticed while the soothing warmth stirs in my loins and my pouty nipples spring to life, that on occasion while he lounges tiredly ensconced in his dirty dreams, his long cock unfurls and begins to swell-up. Before my eyes, the folds disappear as if it were being inflated and the spidery blue veins thicken along it's exterior. It stands tall and meaty, growing into a full, solid erection. Jutting out of the opening of his shorts like a fleshy slightly curved bone, it seems obscenely hard and ready for action. I stare embarrassingly at it's immense capacity. I fear that my eyes are playing tricks on me, as if one of my erotic daydreams has literally sprung to life. I am often forced to shamefully wipe the back of my shaking hand across my drooling mouth. This couldn't actually be happening right here in the living room. But as he sits there snoozing, or just lazily dreaming, in his lap a magnificent boner emerges.

I shift unsteadily in my seat, the scent of my wetness seeming to permeate the air. I can feel the soft rumbling of my vagina beginning to brew the violent spasms that have lately been leading me down this taboo path. I watch him in stunned silence, hoping not to disturb his mood. To calm the fire in my shorts and slow it's progression, my hand presses firmly on my mons, outside of my damp bottoms. I am desperate and even anxious to reach a hand inside and ply the soft moist folds of my outer lips and rub the hardened nub of my clit that I feel poking from it's warm hood. A different, wetter heat takes hold of me. Still, I remain rooted in my place and try to keep as silent as I can. If I apply any more pressure to my aching pussy, I will shriek with suppressed desire.

My mind races," Why," I wonder, "is he so hard?" His eyes are closed, he hasn't moved. "Is it a sexy daydream?" My thoughts are muddled but my body is definitely reacting. "He doesn't seem to be in any deep sleep, but I know personally, that sensual images can appear to you at any moment." Or maybe he is awake and just resting with his eyes closed. "Has he possibly been discreetly stealing glances at me?" I ponder. As I lay just opposite him, my own legs spread to the cooling fan and my sweaty body on display. I take a look at my reclining posture. Stray, blonde hairs curl at the frilly edges of my undies, my tits are clearly showing and the stiff nips are prominently on exhibit. The moist material that I am swathed in is the smallest and lightest that my heaving body can endure. If I were alone at this moment, I would be naked infront of the fan, working frantically to cool the ardent fire in my loins. As it is, I am burning up and tortured with prohibited fantasies.

He seems to be dozing, a pleasant smile creases his face. But am I wrong? Could he have been sneaking peeks at me, or imagining me in various forms of undress? I don't dare wake him and call attention to his raging hard-on, or let him spy me playing with myself at his expense. If he is having lusty desires about some mysterious woman, or even me, I don't wish to disturb him. And his fantasies should be his own. But I am torn by the taboo kinkiness of watching my son, innocently or otherwise, sporting a huge erection and hoping in some vain, incestuous manner that his arousal is due to a sensuous mother/son infatuation.

I know that I should have atleast told him that displaying himself in this way, infront of his mother, is highly irregular no matter what the situation. I know that I should have marched directly out of the room. I could not permit myself to think that his booming, rigid erection had anything to do with me, but then why did I want to believe that it did? And why did I so desperately need to fight the urge to diddle my twat, and in some prurient way want him to see me? Was I feeling that taboo desire also? Could I ever let him think that I was fantasizing about him? What might his reaction be? What if he told me that that stiff cock is because of me, what then? The hot flush became a cold shiver. Finally I dashed into the bathroom and soaked my frazzled head under a very cold shower. But after a few minutes, I adjusted the water and took the extra time to wash my betraying pubic area. The warm cloth massaged my aching pussy and teased the straining tip of my clit until I had a tremendous orgasm and collapsed to the floor of the tub.

I have learned recently that I need to constantly relieve the anxiety of this scorching sensation in my loins, brought about by my teenage son. Even during idle moments at work, I sometimes have to run to a private stall in the Ladies Room, because my mind has absently summoned a vision of my sexy son. The temporary satisfaction allows me to continue with my day, but only invites the deviant, sordid desires to plant themselves in my brain filling my every waking moment, (and quite a few while I'm asleep.) Where this will lead to, I can't imagine. And how it might play-out, I can only hope it to be good for us both.

This is strange to me, I've led a fairly sheltered life. At work, I have had men openly ogle my body and sometimes crudely, remark on my various attributes. Even then I used to laugh about it. I seem to always be in a submissive position and that for some reason, excites me. Domineering men intimidate me, I think that I like to be told what to do. I have been asked on dates and propositioned by co-workers. But as a single mom and professional woman, I usually declined and hurried home to be with my young son. Guys often flirted with me, and I would catch them staring at my chest. At my desk, I often noticed them leaning forward over me, to look down the front of my blouse. I have only a B-cup, but my boobs are perky and my nipples regrettably sprout in the air-conditioning or at the first sign of attention. Just their maleficent gaze makes me squirm in my seat, and if they knew the effect that they had on me, I'd fear for my good-girl reputation.

My legs are my nicest feature, and I often wear sheer or mesh stockings and high heels. I prefer skirts that are slit up one side, and I am often complimented on my "walk." Filing papers and reaching for items on the top or bottom shelves, always brings a devilish smile from men. It's a nice feeling and a great ego boost to gather a man's attention. And most women will admit, (if they're being honest,) that they dress and flirt in order to catch the eye of every guy in the room. And I think that even sub-consciously, you like the fact that once your son matures, and begins to "check-out" the other moms, his eyes still follow your figure around the room. Though he normally doesn't want you to catch him looking at you like that. I can remember vividly the day that he described me as a MILF. And the effect that had on my masturbation.

At his age, having gone to strip-clubs and lost his virginity to neighborhood girls, he wasn't shy in being cooped-up with his mom and pointing-out the enticing elements of a woman's body that whet his appetite, even if they are attached to his mom. And for me, it's been years since I allowed any man to get intimate or come between Teddy and me. Now at nearly forty years of age, I am rediscovering my sex-drive in an increasingly sordid way, and the strain is taking a toll. Those vulgar maneuvers that stimulate my senses, and the closeness that I would need from a partner are now dangerously combining into a situation that is startlingly close to home.

This is where the debauchery deepened. The dilemma intensified on the day that I was cornered while attempting to wash dishes. It started as a routine breakfast but there was very little about it that could be called "innocent." Our town was in the third week of a massive heat wave. We had only a window fan in the kitchen and it circulated the dusty, sticky air. I've heard people say that things are different when the temperature goes up. The old rules just don't seem to be enforced. By now we were reduced to dressing only for morality's sake. Any item of clothing that touched warm, moist flesh immediately became damp and uncomfortable as it stuck to your skin. The light colors and cotton fabrics took on nearly see-through characteristics. It left very little to the imagination, and yet it appears that our imaginations were on overdrive. Eyes just naturally were drawn to each other's curves and bulges. There was no way to be discreet.

I was getting used to seeing Ted bare-chested with just the tiniest of shorts or swimsuits to cover him. Every half-hour he would duck under the cold shower and emerge glistening and sexy-looking. He let the water drip down his muscular torso. His short hair would be spiky and his chest and back muscles rippled. He looked like a body builder being oiled-up before a meet. I was pained to take my eyes off of him, and he could tell. The wet shorts emphasized the distinctive mound between his legs and he was always pulling or tugging at it. I'm sure it was just innocent tucking and readjusting wet body parts, like I do. We had gotten pretty familiar with each other in our need to remain cool. The elastic band of my undies caused irritating moisture that I always needed to clumsily mop-up, catching his eye when my hand would disappear beneath my shorts. The simplest, most innocuous of gestures could be misrepresented. We were just too worn-down by the heat, to care.

On that fateful morning when he sat down at the clear glass breakfast table across from me, I couldn't help but to notice the abnormally huge bulge that his small trunks struggled to contain. Lately, either by intention or body heat, that solid lump was like the proud hour-hand of a stately clock indicating the witching hour has arrived. Sitting, standing, walking, it seemed that whenever I was near him, my eyes were summoned to that firm package riding so high and alluring behind that thin layer of material. More than once; I could see the huge, pinkish, helmeted head of his mesmerizing tool as it peeked above his tight shorts, seeming to point at the coarse hairs around his navel, and riding obscenely high before his mother's embarrassed eyes.

I was dressed rather informally also. My blonde hair was already a damp mop knotted in a ponytail, to keep it off my neck. And still the sweat pooled down my back and puddled in my slight cleavage. My only concession to makeup was lipstick and a light dusting of powder so that I didn't look like a glazed beast. I wore a white cotton tank top and the sheerest of bras, but already the fabric clung annoyingly to me and by simply glancing down, I could see the tiny points of my dark nips pushing out the material and announcing their presence. In the reflection of the glass and by the leering , laser focus of my son's blue eyes, it was plain that every dimple and bump of my tan areole, were on full, lascivious display.

I was bare-legged, my toes painted a dusty-pink to match my lips. I too, wore the smallest bikini bottoms in my drawer. I had even taken the time to carefully groom the light-brown pubic hairs that delicately frame my outer lips. Even when I was shaving, conflicting thoughts wrestled in my mind. I told myself that this was only proper hygiene and that the sudsing, rinsing and oiling of my mons was not meant to trigger the electric charge received from thinking about my son, (even though in my head, I knew that only Teddy would ever glimpse my silky-smooth inner thighs.) And even if he did happen to notice the fresh, sexy approach to my "Y," and it awakened the hidden giant in his shorts, it was not my intention to tease him or invite his salacious comments. I only believed that there should be no straggling hairs or razor bumps to ruin my summer look, and if I happen to grow wet from any particular person observing my private area, well that was only natural.

At first he snuck quick glances at my figure that I only caught in the mirror or from his embarrassed smiles. But more recently the appraisals have been like a man shopping for a car. And his sexually-tinged remarks at first uttered under his breath, were now spoken directly to my shocked ears. As I said, I found them in the beginning to be a little playful, innocent amusement that brought a laugh on these steamy, close days. Some of his comments confused me, making me wonder just what he was alluding to. He would say, "If you're so sweaty, why don't you just go around naked, there's nobody else here, and I would join you." Or "Those tops don't do much more than make you hot, and I can see right through them anyway, why bother?" And, "I don't know why you try to hide your shape, and obviously reveal it, at the same time?"