Mister Durrant's Fuc Photos

Foreword:

Okay, here's quite a lengthy one I hope you enjoy. I've been there before with the discovery of old photographs showing a family member in very compromising positions, but I thought I'd offer it up again; this time with Darren finding a box full of pictures in his mother's wardrobe.

Anyway, here it is. Feedback is always welcome. Please forgive any errors in the text.

Most of all, thank you for reading.

GA -- Calpe, Spain -- 3rd of January 2016.

Prologue

Darren just happens to be facing the right way when the door cracks open. He's in bed, awake at God knows what hour, thoughts running round in circles. At first he thinks it's imagination, the product of a troubled mind -- a

very

troubled mind -- when his tired, scratchy eyes see a lighter sliver of dark where the door jamb should be. Unsure if he's functioning fully or not, he decides to ignore it.

But the lighter shade grows wider, a shadow moving within, a sort of flicker which makes him blink and strain harder to see.

The transition is immediate. Fully alert yet still half convinced it's all an optical illusion, a stressed brain playing tricks, Darren lies still, unable to focus his sight on anything more tangible than shadows dancing in the dead of night. However, the unmistakable click of the door snicking shut brings him all the way upright.

"What is it?" asks Darren while turning his head this way and that. He peers into the almost nothing, trying to make sense of

something

solid at least, his heart rate rising like a fighter plane from an aircraft carrier. He warbles a tentative, "Mum, is that you?"

Her voice comes from close by: "Shush, not so loud, you'll wake everyone up."

"Wuh-what is it?" he whispers. "What do you want?"

As if he doesn't know? As if his stomach isn't sliding with worry and dread.

"To talk," she replies as the bed dips under her weight. "To ask you what you thought you were doing? And to explain a few things as well. I mean, you must be wondering..." Then, as though sensing what Darren intends, just as he extends an arm to flick the switch on the lamp, his mother adds, "Don't turn on the light. I don't want to see you." There's a pause before she finishes with, "And I don't want you to see me."

Darren brings his hand back in close, snatches it away from the switch as though he's been burned before scooting away from where his mother is perched on the edge of his bed. "Talk?" he says as the blanket of fear settles heavier.

Caught

Amelia was five minutes into the journey when she realised she'd forgotten the keys. Without them, she wouldn't be able to open the shop, which made the decision to turn around inevitable. She muttered a curse and turned the Mercedes into a side street, retracing her route home where she left the car at the kerb instead of pulling into the drive. There really wasn't time to wait for the gates to slide open, not for such a quick in-and-out. Amelia decided it would be quicker to use the small pedestrian gate. That way she could walk around the side of the house, go in through the back door, find the damned keys, and be out again in a few minutes.

"Left my keys," Amelia said to Emma as she breezed through the kitchen.

Her daughter questioned her with a look and raised eyebrows as she turned from washing a cup at the sink in the kitchen. "Oh, I wondered..." Emma replied as her mother breezed through, her voice trailing off as Amelia kept going.

Amelia knew the precise location of the wayward keys: the big handbag she'd used last time she was out, which was currently lying next to her bed. She climbed the stairs quickly, reaching the third landing by taking the steps two at a time.

She stopped just outside the open door to her bedroom.

He was obviously engrossed, too wrapped up in what he was looking at to register his mother's arrival.

And by the time Darren noticed Amelia's presence it was far too late.

Darren's bedroom

Darren isn't sure, but it sounds like his mother chuckled an instant before she replies.

"Oh, Darren. Come

on

," she says with a sigh. "Take a wild guess. What do you think I want to talk about?"

"I'm sorry," he moans into the dark. "I ... I don't know what I was thinking."

Go away, go away, go away ... Leave me alone!

). "I shouldn't have been there ... I shouldn't have done it; I'd give anything to take it all back."

Her voice is low and as dark as the night: "You're a filthy beast, a dirty little animal."

Darren is so ashamed, so dejected he wails, "I'm so sorry."

To which his mother hisses, "Will you be quiet," while getting to her feet.

Darren feels the bed heave and senses rather than sees his mother flit through the dark to the door. He's partly relieved and also oddly disappointed when he thinks she's leaving, but, rather than making an exit, his mother lingers before moving back to the bed.

"Right," she murmurs while retaking her seat. "Stop making so much noise or you'll have the whole house awake."

Darren thought to mention they were on the third floor. His sister's family are on the level below; low voices are hardly likely to wake anyone up. But, just in the moment, he doesn't have the capacity to ask any questions. Dazed and confused, he holds himself close to the wall, emotions in turmoil.

"All right, so," his mother begins, "what were you doing sneaking about in my personal business?"

One:

A few days before

It took more than a few seconds for him to realise just who it was he was seeing. Hiding Christmas presents was forgotten, the carefully wrapped gifts still in the big blue Ikea bag he'd used to cart them all upstairs. Instead, Darren sat cross-legged on the floor, the open shoe box near his shins while he gawped in stunned disbelief at the old photograph he held between a forefinger and thumb.

Darren trembled when recognition set in. "Oh Jesus," he gasped while vague, not-quite-formed questions popped into his head.

How old is she?

he thought in the aftermath of the cold-water shock.

Nineteen? Twenty? ... And who took the picture? Mum, oh God, Mum -- what are you doing?

His insides gave this greasy little slide when he glanced down to see the box was crammed full of more of the same. There were hundreds of photos in there, and the ones he could see scattered about on the top layer all seemed to depict the same subject, the same girl. She was clothed in some, nude in others, her face all too familiar, easily recognisable regardless of the years which had past as she stared out at her son from a couple of decades ago.

Darren mind worked through the sludge. It was like thinking through glue, but he still had the capacity to notice her hairstyle and clothes -- when she had any on -- looked to be 70s in style.

He wasn't up to the mental gymnastics required for simple calculations; Darren couldn't quite manage to subtract his mother's fifty-seven years back to 1978 or '79, but that was definitely her posing nude for the pictures.

Darren dropped the first photo, then scooped out a handful, skipping them through his fingers one after the other while soaking up the detail of his own mother's ripe, voluptuous figure. "God, you're so pretty," he mumbled.

A moment later, the reality of his situation filtered through. Darren felt a tingle on the back of his neck, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver down his spine. He dropped the pictures into the box at the same time as he craned round to look back at the open bedroom door, his heart cranking up through a few gears when he realised anyone could walk past at any moment: his sister or brother-in-law or any of their brood. Not that they had any reason to be up on the top floor of the house, but Darren couldn't take the chance.

And what if his mother walked in?

Darren scrambled about when panic ballooned. He cursed when a flailing hand knocked the side of the box to spill photos over the carpet, their glossy surface spreading them like oil. He was on his knees as he scooped them up, desperate to cover his tracks and get out of his mother's room before he was caught.

"Shit, oh bollocks," he muttered, wondering if there was any kind of order to the way the pictures were stacked. The questions came at him like arrows: how often does she look in the box? Will she notice anything amiss? And, if his mother did notice, would she ask any questions?

Then, for Darren, the world stopped. He went still when he happened to glance into the box. He stared down and didn't notice the little "ack" sound that came up from the back of his throat. Time seemed to stretch as Darren watched his own fingers dip into the pile of photographs. To him it was like he was set on the ceiling, an observer looking on as the scene played out. It was as though he was watching a film.

Darren saw himself lift the picture out of the pile, gaze at it for what seemed an age, then throw a furtive look over one shoulder.

A moment later the photo went into the back pocket of his jeans.

Still out-of-body, he watched the Darren down below quickly tidied up the evidence, replacing the lid before he leaned into the wardrobe to shove the box back into its corner.

When his top half emerged, reality snapped back and he was back in the three dimensional realm. Darren became abruptly conscious of his body's response: he was sucking in breaths through his nose while his heart was a bass lub-lub bouncing around in his chest, the sound of it pulsing up into his ears while his stomach churned and the anxious need to pee pushed to the forefront of his mind. Also, alongside the fear and anxiety, on a deep, dark and somewhat disturbing level, he also awoke to the slither of some illicit and decidedly carnal emotion.

Darren paused, wondering if he should return the photograph to its hiding place, his hand going to the pocket, fingertips sliding over the glossy surface as the recollection of the image popped into his head.

Darren refused to acknowledge the emotion rising inside him as he gaped down at the picture. He denied the hot flare deep in his core, the sudden surge of arousal in that indefinable place between his balls and the pit of his stomach. Gulping down on the urge to haul out his cock -- which was fully erect and pulsing with need -- Darren let out a low, desperate moan while shoving the photo back into his pocket.

Then he scurried from her bedroom with the big blue bag of presents over his shoulder, the contraband in his jeans pocket for later perusal.

*

He yanked at himself. Unable to resist any longer. It was Christmas Eve, almost two days since he purloined the picture. He had denied the truth to himself about why he took it, but had finally succumbed. Darren looked at the image of his own mother while tugging his cock. Desire just would not be denied, no matter how illicit.

He was in the upstairs bathroom, with the door locked, the photo set on the washbasin, her picture angled towards him as the top edge rested against the splashback tiles above the sink. Darren's jeans were round his shins while the family were about their pre-Christmas business downstairs, his cock-head slippery with pre-cum as his fist worked back-and-forth, the fap-fap-fap coming up juicy and slick.

"You're so fucking lovely," Darren grunted. "His cock in your mouth..."

He groaned and winced, slack-jawed and bug-eyed, his gaze fixed on his mother's distorted face. Darren gazed at her lips, which were thin, bloodless lines compressed by the girth of the cock she had wedged between them.

It's the sheer

wrongness

of seeing it which tugged at his vitals. She's his mother, but Darren couldn't help but wish it was his cock stuck in her face. He gawped at the young woman, gasping at the sight of cum spattered over her cheek as she grins into the camera. And she's definitely grinning, Darren could tell. Despite having her mouth stuffed full of male gristle, the expression is there in her eyes. She might have her mouth full of a very fat dick, but his mother's amused (delighted?) smirk shines through. It was obvious the man, whomever

he

is, has just let go all over her breasts. His mother's round tits, so big and youthful -- so fucking

firm

-- are spattered with gloop while a thick, snotty rope of the stuff dangles from her chin.

"It isn't you, Mum," Darren groaned as he jacked at his length. "It can't be," he sighed, shaking his head while his gaze remained fixed on the picture. "It ... it's just too dirty to be you. I mean, you're covered in spunk..."

Darren moaned again when he recalled how full the shoebox had been. How many pictures were in there? Over what span of time were they taken? Is it just one lover she's with, or were there more? He grunted, teeth clenched as the surge rose up. He was close to his climax, so near to pumping the hot stuff out of his dick.

"How many men have you fucked?" Darren asked, the question coming up in a near gurgle.

He soaks up her nakedness, wondering at the texture of her skin if he was touching her body. What sort of noise did she make when the man's jizm splashed onto her tits? Did she use profanity to goad him to orgasm? Did she crank at his shaft and slurp at the big, plummy end while mumbling obscenities into his face?

"Fuck, what a body," he eventually snarled. "And just look at that bush..."

Darren's focus was set between his mother's spread thighs as she lays on her side, weight on one hip and an elbow while her legs are spread wide to show off her vulva and thick pelt of dark hair. The image was so lewd he could barely supress the sob which burst out of his chest as the heavy outrush began.

Darren groaned and then spit out the word. "Bitch," he said as the cum flicked out of his cock. "You hot, sexy

bitch

; you filthy old slut...

"Oh Jesus, oh fuck, just look at that cunt ... Look at those tits..."

And then, as the hot surge of desire evaporated to leave Darren shell-shocked and gasping while he stared into the mirror above the sink. Appalled with himself, the guilt rushed in to fill the void left by the outpouring of need.

"No," Darren mumbled at the slack-faced stranger looking out from the mirror. "Stop it," he breathed, horrified by what he'd done. "Never,

ever

again."

He surveyed the carnage, then groaned in disgust when his eyes fell on the lewd picture. Suddenly, he couldn't bear to look at it and, condemning himself for being so perverted, hauled up his jeans and shoved the photo back in his pocket. He was determined to put it back and never revisit the wardrobe. He gulped, guts twisting with guilt and anxiety as he mopped up the mess, flushing wads of toilet tissue away before slinking out of the bathroom.

*

Darren timed it so there was little risk of being caught. It was a moment or two before the evening meal was due to be served; his mother was busy in the kitchen while his sister lent a hand, with the sound of his brother-in-law's attempts to cajole the children through to the dining room came up the stairs loud and clear.

Darren had excused himself from the chaos, citing a call of nature as the reason and, ignoring the downstairs cloakroom, he took the opportunity of the distractions to hurry upstairs and sneak into her bedroom. His plan was to shove the picture back into the box and then forget it ever existed -- which seemed simple when he'd just drained himself of semen, the dark urges pouring out of him in a rush, but which suddenly became difficult to achieve when his feet crossed the threshold.

He made it to her bedroom easily enough, the sneakiness descending like an invisible cloak when Darren stepped through the door. He was back on dangerous ground, forbidden territory, once again lurking inside his mother's boudoir with no real excuse for being there.

He was trembling when he eased the shoebox from its dark corner, the slide of arousal curdling inside him. Darren's cock thickened when he saw all those photos again:

Take one more

, the oily voice whispered.

Take two, she'll never know...

A rush of illicit excitement took hold when he pushed his hand into the stack. Despite knowing it was the wrong thing to do, he couldn't stop himself from letting his fingers burrow in, the tips picking a picture at random from the bottom of the pile. Delicious anticipation squeezed Darren's guts when, without looking at the photo he'd just snagged, he slipped it into his back pocket and then dipped in for one more.

He detoured to the bathroom for a quick scan of the prize, cock throbbing as he slid the bolt and hurriedly fished the pictures out of his jeans.

"Oh my God," gurgled Darren when he saw what he had. "Oh Jesus, Mum," he added on a sigh.

*

They were all sitting round the table when Amelia noticed him looking at her, his expression prompting her to ask, "Darren? Are you all right? Is something the matter?"

Darren blinked, startled out of his reverie. He came up out of the fugue, wondering if he'd been staring at her? He wasn't sure, but suspected he might have been.

The question went through his mind:

Who

are

you?

Then, unbidden:

Is your muff still thick and dark, Mum? Are you all hairy down at your cunt?

"Uh, nuh-no, everything's fine," Darren replied out loud, fighting off the libidinous thoughts.

Except for those photos ... Except for those pictures of you getting fucked from behind

.

"Well, how come you're not eating?" Amelia asked, an eyebrow arched in enquiry. "You seem sort of ... distant. Are you sure you're okay?"

Darren cast a look around the table. He saw his nephew and niece shovelling in chips, too absorbed by stuffing their faces to take any notice while their mother, his sister Emma, eyed him with a similar expression of maternal concern.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Darren said after throwing a glance towards his brother-in-law. He shrugged and added, "Just wondering about Christmas and how different it is to last year."

The lie seemed to satisfy his mother, who gave a half shrug of her own. "Yes, well, at least you're rid of that abominable woman. I know a divorce can be painful, but honestly, Darren, she was--"

"Mum," Emma put in, cutting Amelia short. "Please don't start."

The fierce look from her daughter was accompanied by a roll of her eyes towards the children, the warning causing Amelia Baxter to realise it wasn't the time to berate her son for his choice in a wife. "Oh, yes, all right I'm sorry, darling," she said, eyes dropping down to the table. "Anyway," she went on a moment later while smiling at Darren. "At least you're here with us this year. Is everything okay in your room? Is it strange to back?"

Inside his head, Darren heard,

What's strange is finding that stash of dirty pictures. Mum, jeez, I'd never have thought it...

before he said, "Honest, Mum, everything's good. I'll look for a job and then get a place of my own."

His mother nodded. "Take your time. It's lovely having you here. There's no rush, sweetie..."

After that, the conversation turned towards Emma, a discussion about division of labour and who was doing what on Christmas Day. Darren tuned out on the chatter about peeling vegetables and the size of the turkey, his mind drifting back to the photograph of his mother on her hands and knees, a man behind her, his cock buried in the matt of her pubic bush while she was creased at the waist and smiling back at him over one shoulder.

She was loving it, absolutely delighted to be getting fucked from behind, the pleasure lighting up her face as she angled her pelvis and invited him into her body.

Darren gulped in response when lust rushed inside him. He took surreptitious look at his mother while trying to reconcile the staid, prim and apparently respectable woman with the smirking slut in the photos.