I'm a 26 year old male, a professional with an advanced degree, and I've had sexual relations with my mother for the last two years. Mom is 42. She is a wonderful, sexy woman - thrice divorced - who has had her share of bad relationships. I never knew my father - he left before I was born.
I've had girlfriends through my teens and my early twenties, and many satisfying sexual experiences. My childhood was generally happy one. Mom would always seem to hook up with some loser or low-life who would leave after only a few months. The only constants in our lives were with each other. Oh, there was nothing sexual between us then! During puberty I confess that I fantasied about Mom, but, (thank you, Dr. Freud), I don't think its too unusual for a zit-faced adolescent boy with raging hormones to have such fantasies.
How did our relationship start? After I left grad school, I landed a terrific job in my profession. I went apartment hunting but Mom suggested I move back home for while. After cramped college dorms it felt good to be back home. It was just Mom and me like in the old days. The stay was only supposed to be temporary until I found an apartment but after a few months I stopped looking. Mom joked that I just wanted someone to do my laundry. Yeah, it was nice to have home-cooked meals and someone to clean up after me. But it was nice to re-capture that feeling of warmth of sharing a home with someone who cares.
It all started one morning when I was getting ready for work. Since Mom started work later than I she would usually still be sleeping by the time I left the house. The bathroom door was open. I guess because I was running late I must not have seen that the bathroom light was on. Anyway, I stepped into the bathroom - and had the shock of my life.
Mom was standing in front of the mirror applying mascara. I gasped. Mom was wearing nothing but a white nylon half-slip. It was a sight forever burned into my mind. All the secret, shameful fantasies of pubescence rushed through me at once. I know the decent thing for me to do at this point would be to close the door and walk away. But I couldn't - I couldn't tear myself away. Mom's breasts were larger than I had imagined, fuller than I had remembered in accidental 'sightings' as a child when Mom was more casual about her nudity. Her breasts hung pendulously down as she leaned toward the mirror. They jiggled slightly with Mom's movements. My knees were weak.