There seem to be dozens, if not hundreds, of mother/son stories. There are so many that use the format of the young stud and hot mom who suddenly decide they want to be each other's sex toy and get down to it. That's not very realistic, but hey, this is after all
a fantasy site
. This story is about an aging woman, one like you see here or there every day, her son isn't a show stopper either, but they realize they are what the other needs in a slow loving way. There are no 38FFF breasts, no ten-inch cocks, no threesomes, no sharing the other with half the town, mom does know how to trip her boys trigger though. It builds slow, so if you're into fast moving stories with less content, my suggestion is to ignore this one.
The last time I mentioned PTSD in a story I was excoriated by one particular person, in fact he sent not one, but three nasty e-mails. He was in essence telling me I was full of shit and shouldn't be dissing veterans. I guess my eight years in the military and two combat duties along with the scars of two bullets that ripped through my body don't count. You can't un-see, un-hear, or un-experience that which you've heard, seen, and done. PTSD can and will fuck with your mind, far too many have died because of the after-effects of combat. To that person who took offence last time I was not dissing veterans in any shape or form, but to stick your head in the sand and never talk about it is not the answer either.
On a more pleasant note, I hope you enjoy the story.
Mom
In stories of this nature we typically read about a mother in her mid to late fifties, or early sixties, who still has the body of a forty- five year old, is at the fitness center three times a week and does yoga another two. Their butt is firm, the legs are "toned", (whatever that's supposed to mean) , her breasts have little or no sag with nipples an inch long and she is the coveted MILF of the neighborhood. That's not the mom in my story, she's fifty-four, she looks and dresses according to her age, she wouldn't know what a fitness center looked like and there are no yoga classes out in the country where we live.
Her hair is beginning to show streaks of silver, she's probably five pounds over-weight without a muffin top, her boobs are heavy but not sagging, her tummy is flat but certainly not "toned". She has that little bit of skin that's left over from babies stretching her tummy, along with stretch marks and a scar from two cesarian deliveries. Her body is stout but shows the wear and tear of over forty years on a dairy farm, dad died when I was a junior in high school, mother and I milked our sixty head until I chose to go in the military three years later, mainly for the GI benefits and training.
When I left there was no one to help any longer, my older sister lived seven states away, with me gone mom sold the milking herd and bought twenty head of beef, nineteen cows and a bull. By the time I returned four and a half years later she had over sixty cows, two bulls and another twenty-three head of young stock that would be ready for breeding in a year. She sold enough each year to cover taxes and insurance, the rent she received for crop land brought in enough that she didn't need to tap into the life insurance left after dad died.
I had been relatively intelligent and made the most of my high school years being on the honor roll all four years, which helped greatly when I went into the Air Force. Having scored high on the aptitude test and had experience operating heavy machinery I was placed in a combat ready civil engineering squadron following basics and tech school. I joined the 554
th
Red Horse unit at Anderson AFB in Guam, because we at times would have to work in combat areas we did combat training with other branches of the service, mainly the Army.
Most of my time was spent in Southeast Asia doing work on other bases or radar sites, electrical, construction, earth moving, plumbing, remote airfield evaluation and repair, if it had to do with construction and engineering we were deployed. Had my last deployment never happened I could say my four years had been fulfilling and at times enjoyable. Unfortunately, we ended up at a small abandoned airfield in Afghanistan in an area that had once been controlled by the Taliban. We had no more than entered the area with our security detail and the place turned into a nightmare.
Being combat ready we were trained in weaponry and had been issued M-4 rifles upon entry. Between the Marines assigned to our detail and the eleven of us it took us half a day and two called in air strikes to secure the area enough for a runway evaluation and assessment of damages. Within three weeks we had done enough repairs to the runway for the Army to get small craft in and out safely, mainly helicopters.
During the eight months we were deployed there we revamped the entire runway including lighting. We built buildings, converted what the Taliban had destroyed back into habitable dwellings, set up eating facilities, a command post and put up several small cement block facilities for the locals as a good will gesture. By the time we left I had seen enough carnage and mayhem to last a lifetime, they tell you in time it all goes away, it doesn't, there are things you can't possibly reverse in your mind. You simply learn to put it somewhere deep within your memory bank and hope it never resurfaces.
Upon discharge and returning home I moved in with mom and helped with chores, we lived just over twelve miles from the city. Ours was a bustling metropolis of almost six thousand which is nothing compared to *big cities* but in the middle of what is still dairy country it was considered a huge place. When mom sold the dairy herd she wanted half the proceeds to go to me for staying on and helping to keep the farm going after high school. I told her to stick it in a savings account and I'd do something with it when I got out of the Air Force.
I had actually forgotten about it until mom brought it up at supper one night wondering what I might do with it. I had no idea what kind of money she was talking about and asked. With what little bit of interest it had accrued I had sixty-three thousand and change at my disposal, what she said next was unexpected.
"John, I know you planned to use the GI bill and go to college, but with all your heavy equipment knowledge have you considered doing excavation work? Arnold Timmer's is retiring and wants to sell his equipment, you could probably inherit a bunch of his customers as well, the only other guy with a backhoe is Troy Merten, he's a druggie and alkie, not many people like him because he never shows up on time, if at all."
I got ahold of old Mr. Timmer's and talked with him, the price was too high with what equipment he had but he was willing to sell me individual pieces if I was interested. He knew where a smaller John Deere 550 dozer was for sale cheap and an older Case 580 as well. I decided to buy his three year old F-750 with a five yard dump, Cat 7 diesel and a snowplow along with the trailer he used to haul his D-5. After buying his equipment he helped me pick up the 550 and the older 580 backhoe, which left me with just over fifteen grand in the bank. Arnie sent out a letter to all his customers telling them I was taking over his business and to please consider hiring me for any future work.
Within a month he was able to sell the D-5 and his excavator, I wanted that excavator in the worst way but it just wasn't in the budget. By the sixth month of being in business I had all the work I wanted with no indication that it would slow down soon. When I had first moved in with mom I upgraded the heating/cooling, brought in a guy I'd gone to school with who was now a plumber to upgrade the plumbing, his brother was an electrician so I had that taken care of as well. Mother and I covered the costs together, I talked her into spending a bit more of her hard earned money to replace the sixty year old single pane windows and the aluminum storms with low-E high efficiency double pane units, with that done we were ready for winter with a renewed confidence.
When I went into the Air Force I never imagined I would end up in a hostile combat zone, and yet I did. Long story short, I, like so many others, saw shit I will never be able to un-see, shit that plagues me even though I'm home in the safety of the farm-house, shit that keeps me up at night and nightmares that wake my mother. It wasn't the carnage of military operations that got to me, it was the way the bad guys used women, children, and old men as though all were expendable.
It was watching young teen girls be auctioned off to older men as their next wife, it was looking at people and wondering if there was a bomb strapped to their body and be blown up for Jihad. It was watching a wife be beat in public because she dared speak back to her husband, and the list goes on. It was during one of those nightmare tormenting nights that things changed between mother and me. Thrashing around the bed in a cold sweat I was wakened by a hand on my chest and a soft voice saying my name.
"John, John, wake up John, it's not real, it's a nightmare."
It was one of those nights where the moon is like a neon light shining through the windows, as I opened my eyes I could make out mom's body as she sat sideways, her nightie was thin enough that I could clearly see the silhouette of her chest as light filtered through it. My arm was across her right thigh and she was holding my hand with her left as she spoke. I'd never noticed her bust, or for that matter her figure until that night, she was mom, I had no reason to look at her in that manner, yet here I was looking at her full heavy breasts silhouetted against the window.
Mom always wore a bra ... always ... except for bed, so it wasn't as though I'd seen them swaying or jiggling under a shirt at other times. I found it interesting that what I imagined her breasts would look like was nowhere near correct. I had assumed age would have flattened them in a manner that they lay against her body with little or no shape, on the contrary. They appeared heavy on the bottoms as breasts that age will, but they still had body, with nipples that poked at her nightie in a slight ski slope fashion. The last I remember before falling back to sleep was pulling my hand free from her grasp, lifting it and cupping her breast, giving it a slight squeeze and whispering thank you".
When I woke to pee about five thirty I pondered as to whether that had actually happened or if it was in my imagination, not knowing anything for certain I chose to say nothing and act as normal as possible. At breakfast mom gave no indication that I had done anything wrong so I chalked it up to my imagination, even with the apron she wore over her cotton house dress it was apparent she had a bra on. The entire episode had to have been in my head. The next few weeks went as usual, me up for chores with mom and then breakfast, a quick shower for me, head out the door by seven thirty, work until four or thereabouts and head home to a hot meal with mother.
