Mom Strips Naed for Nude Day

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Mother helps son write a more realistic, incestuous Nude Day story.

Chapter One - The black binder filled with erotic stories

"Mom! I'm home. Where are you?"

"I'm up here in your room, Jason," said Elizabeth to her son dryly.

Thinking it odd, Jason immediately noticed her stern tone. Normally, she's in the kitchen to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, as if she had been there waiting for him to come home to greet him. Normally, as if he was the man of the house and, no doubt, he was, she was eager to listen to how his day was, while serving him milk and cookies at the kitchen table, as if he was still her little boy. Normally, she's happy to see him. Today was different. He felt the tension in the air and in her voice. Something was wrong, but what? Then, he realized that she was in his room.

"Oh, shit. What did she find?"

An overload of thoughts went through his head. What's his mother doing in his room? With respecting one another's privacy a big issue, as much for her, as it is for him, she never goes in his room. Did he forget to close his bedroom door? No, he remembered closing it, when leaving for his college class. Did he forget to shut down his computer? No, he didn't. He remembered shutting it down. Even if he had left his computer up and running, everything is password protected anyway, he thought to himself, while putting down his books and removing his backpack. There's no way his technology phobic mother could read any of what he's written about her on his computer.

'Oh, shit!'

Maybe she found a pair of her panties and/or her bra that he used to feel, while masturbating and forgot to put back in the laundry bin.

'Oh, fuck.'

Sick with worry, knowing she found something, but what, he scaled the stairs to his room two at a time.

"Hi, Mom," said Jason with a forced smile, while standing in his doorway and looking around his room to see if anything looked disturbed.

His mother was sitting on his bed. She never sits on his bed. What's that all about? A foreboding feeling of doom took hold of him, as if being sent to the principal's office, when he was back in high school, so long ago.

"Hi, Jason," she said without standing to give him a smile or a kiss on the cheek and he was too upset with her to go to her to get one.

"What are you doing in my room?"

He tried acting calm, when he was panicking inside. He knew she had found something, he could tell by her stiff demeanor, but what? As if she was the bloody Queen of England, she was always so stiffly judgmental, but today she was his mother on steroids. Today, she invaded his privacy. Suddenly, he felt so controlled by her.

He should have known this living arrangement would never work. With all of his friends living just off campus in their own apartments, a 22-year-old grown man, he was still living at home with his mother. Only, feeling bad about leaving her, having been so close to her for so long, putting off the inevitable, he picked the local university, instead of leaving the state to go to school. He figured living at home, instead of on campus, would not only save money but also would make her feel better about him maturing into a man and no longer being her little boy. Only, what would she do, when he found a woman, got married, and left her to live his life?

He wondered what she possibly could have found. He didn't use drugs, but maybe one of his friends left a joint or a roach of marijuana behind, when last they visited. Oh, God, how embarrassing would that be, if she found evidence of him masturbating, especially at his age, a spent tissue, perhaps, or his nude photos of Jennifer Lopez, his cougar idol. Maybe, being that she was already sitting on his bed, she was going to give him the birds and bees talk. Yet, at 22-years-old, even though she still treated him, as if he was her little boy, he was no longer a horny, pimple faced teenager; he was a man.

Oh, shit, maybe she found his spy magazine, the one with the color camera circled that he was saving to buy to spy on her stripping naked to take a shower, dressing and undressing for bed in her bedroom, or hoping to catch her masturbating in bed. He chose that particular camera because the software automatically downloaded the live feed to his computer. Pretending he was sitting behind his computer doing his homework, he could watch his naked mother, instead, from any room in the house on his portable, wireless laptop. Whatever she found, he could tell by the look on her face that she found something bad. Whatever it was, he was fucked.

"Well," said Elizabeth seated on his bed with her knees pressed so tightly together, that they looked, as if they were cemented.

Yet, even with her knees so tightly pressed together, because of her preference for short skirts and because of her shapely thighs from jogging around the neighborhood, she still inadvertently and routinely gave him a sneak peek of a triangular patch her panty, just above her thighs.

"Yes? What is it, mother?" Acting as if someone in the family had died, her stiff demeanor frightened him.

Just as she was so damn beautiful, she was so damn anal. Just once, he'd love to see her relax. Just once, he'd love to see her drunk, or high, or so happy that she didn't care about all the unimportant things in life that made her so crazy. He tried to get her to meditate by buying her a book and a tape for Christmas, but she never did. A day at the spa, he bought her a massage for her birthday, but she never used that either. An attractive woman, he wished she'd find someone to make her happy and to get her off his back, but that dating service that he submitted her profile to didn't work. She had a few dates and he suspected she had sex, but the men she dated, probably players just looking for sex, never called her for a second date. For better or for worse, two peas in a pod and attached at the hip, as if they never cut the umbilical cord, they were still stuck together, as mother too attached to her son.

Knowing she was thinking about what to say, he watched her wrestle with her thoughts. In the way she smoothed down her short skirt and placed her hands in her lap, as if to purposely deny him his customary up skirt view of her panty, if he was looking, he figured she somehow knew that he was always looking to see what he can see of her. Yet, how in the Hell did she find out that he was a voyeur and she was his personal, private exhibitionist? With the use of diversions to divert her attention away from his sexual intentions and away from his incestuous stare with well placed mirrors, going out of the way with precautions to make the house a secretive voyeur's paradise, he had been so careful over the years for her not to catch him looking.

"I was putting away your clothes, when I decided to change your sheets," she said looking up at him with a horror, as if he had just told her that he was a serial killer. "I found your black binder full of disgusting, dirty stories about me tucked beneath your mattress," she said pulling out the book from behind her back and holding up his sordid book of incestuous stories with her as the starring character.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he said with his head down, as if he had just broken the window again playing baseball on the front lawn, when he was a kid.

"I must admit, because the writing was top notch, it was an interesting read," she said with smugness.

Nonetheless, her compliment, she looked at him, as if he had just stabbed her through the heart. She looked at him with a face full of hurt, in the way she must have looked at her boyfriend, when he told her he didn't love her, after impregnating her with him 23-years ago and deserting her to raise him alone. Always so positive, she always looked for the bright side of things and the fact that she was complimenting him on his erotic writing about her, his own mother, was a bit of a stretch.

"Mom! You read my stories?" Lightheaded, he was paralyzed with fear, while nearly every dirty word he wrote about her fast forwarded through his mind in the way of a supersonic ticker tape. Sick with remorse, he couldn't move. "How could you? That's personal. That's private. That's mine."

"So wrong on so many different levels, how dare you write those dirty stories about me, Jason, your own mother!" She said holding up his black binder, as if she was a holy woman holding up the Bible to ward off the Devil in her house.

She looked at him in the way she did, when he came home from Junior High and used swears word, before she cured him of that, by washing his mouth out with soap. She hated foul language and would have nothing to do with any man, who used it, which is why, no doubt, she's alone and lonely now.

"I don't understand, Mother. We had a privacy agreement. Why were you even in my room, under the pretense of laundering my sheets, when I do my own laundry," he said watching her eyeing him, as if he was a stranger in her house. "I don't go in your room and go through your stuff," he said suddenly feeling guilty and so much like the incestuous pervert that he was, when remembering going through her panty and bra drawer to masturbate to the feel of her sexy lingerie, whenever she was out shopping.

"Is this what I pay your college tuition for you to do, to write dirty stories about me?" She waved the book at her son, as if it was a Playboy magazine she found in his bedroom fifty years ago.

"Mom, I can explain."

"Explain? How can you possibly explain that you wrote perverted stories about me, your own mother? How can you possibly defend your incestuous pornography?"

As if he had already violated her and raped her, as so often he imagined doing, actually, he did violate her by writing such trash about her. Suddenly feeling so guilty, how could he do such a thing to her? She looked at him through sad eyes that suddenly welled up with tears and her sad look pained his heart. Even more than that, as if he had betrayed her and, no doubt, he had, she looked at him with such a suffering sorrow that he wanted to throw himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness.

Only, he was torn. Even though she discovered his dirty secret by finding his erotic stories, he'd never stop writing them. He couldn't stop writing them. With his passion his writing and his mother, his sexual release that relieved his sexual frustration in not being able to have sex with his mother was writing about having sex with his mother.

"Look at the stories from my point of view. They're just stories. They're not even dirty stories, Mom, not really. They're loving family stories, about a mother's love for her son and a son's love for his mother. They're erotic literature and they're not all about you," he said in his defense. "I only used you as--"

"Not dirty stories? They're disgusting stories. They're nothing more than pornographic filth."

Only, as soon as she stopped listening to interrupt him, he knew that he had no defense. With his explanation sounding good in his head, as soon as he started verbalizing it, he realized that his justification for incestuously writing about her was as ridiculous as were his stories. Wishing he never had printed out his stories and wishing he had left them on his hard drive, he wished he lived alone. Afraid of losing all that he had written, he printed the erotic stories as a backup security measure, should his computer crash and something happen to his backups. Busted, he was so busted.

After she read all that he's written about her, what could he possibly say to appease her and to make her forgive him for using her in that disgusting way? Suddenly feeling so perverted, he was so embarrassed for his mother to know that he had written incestuous stories about her. Now, she knows that he's a pervert. Now, she knows that she can't trust him in her own house. Now, instead of walking around in her nightgown, instead of stepping out of the bathroom just wearing a towel, and instead of wearing her bikini out back by the pool, she'll always make sure that she's modestly covered. His voyeurism of his mother was officially over.

"I'm sorry, Mom."

"The stories that I read are trash, Jason. The stories that I read are so sexually explicit that I'm embarrassed that my son would write such filth about me," she said flipping through the binder. "Shocking, so very shocking. How dare you write this trash about me? How could you write such dirty things about me? It's bad enough to think of this filth, but why would you put such disgusting thoughts to paper? What's wrong with you for you to write these stories about me, your mother?" She looked at him, as if he had just slapped her. "At a loss for words, Jason, I just don't know what to say to you, other than I'm deeply hurt."

"My stories are not trash, Mom," he said trying to find a high road to take that would take him away from the low road he was walking. "They're all quality stories, albeit erotic literature, about a mother's love for her son and a son's love for his mother."

"Bullshit!" She picked up his binder and opened it. "Explain to me how Mom Catches Me Masturbating Over Her Panties is a quality story. I exploded my cum all over her panty is what you wrote," she said reading from his story. "Is that what you do, masturbate over my panties?" She looked at him with his head down and when he didn't answer, she continued.

"No, I don't masturbate over your panties, Mom," he said finally and lying.

"Here's another good family story about a mother's love for her son," she said flipping through pages. "My Drunken Mother Forces Me to Have Sex with Her," she said looking up at him, while turning page after page looking for passages to quote. "After she forced me to lick her pussy, she pulled down my pajama bottoms and impaled her mouth with my cock. Those are your words, Jason. You wrote that filth about me. Is that your sexual fantasy, me forcing you to have sex with me? Do you fantasize about licking my pussy, while I suck your cock?"

He never heard his mother use such words. As soon as she said licking her pussy, he thought about being between her thighs, while licking her pussy. As soon as she said sucking his cock, he thought about his mother on her knees sucking his cock. As if a sexual fantasy come true, as if they were having forced pillow talk, he couldn't believe he was having this impromptu sexual conversation with his mother, of all people.

"No, Mother," he said in a small voice. Finally free from the hiding and sneaking around, instead of feeling guilty for writing his incestuous stories, instead of feeling guilty that she found his stories, he felt sexually aroused that she was quoting what he wrote. As if they were having pillow talk, it was exciting to hear her read his words. "It's just a story, Mom."

"Here's a good one, Videotaping My Mother Undressing," she said looking at him with shock. "And here's another good one Watching My Mom Masturbating," she said looking around his room. "I found your Spy book, by the way, with a tiny spy cam circled. Is there a camera hidden in my room? Have you hidden a camera in the bathroom? Are you watching me, Jason, hoping to catch me naked or to see me masturbating? Must I watch for video cameras recording me stripping naked in my own house? How dare you write this vile, disgusting crap about me, Jason, my own son. I no longer know who you are. You make me feel so violated and so dirty."

When she merely mentioned stripping naked, he imagined watching her undressing. He imagined her in bed with her eyes closed, her knees up, and her fingers buried deep in her pussy. He'd give anything for his mother to give him a free show of her hot, nude body.

"There's no video cameras watching you, Mom," he said now glad that he didn't order the video camera.

Now that she knows, he'd be so embarrassed had she found a camera in the bathroom and in her bedroom. Glad that he hadn't, it was then that he realized how he would have violated his mother by spying on her. Still, the thought of seeing her strip herself naked aroused him.

"Here's another good one, Helping My Mother Take a Bath," she said looking up at him. "Is that what you'd like to do, Jason, strip me naked, while touching me and feeling me everywhere, on the pretense of helping me to take a bath?"

"It's just a story, Mom," he said suddenly imagining stripping her naked, while touching and feeling her everywhere, on the pretense of helping her to bath.

"And what about this one, Taking my Mom to my Prom and to my Bed. Have you seriously imagined us having intercourse? So wrong on so many different levels, how could you, Jason. I'm your mother."

"It's all just fiction, Mom," he said suddenly thinking about lying in between his mother's legs, while making love to her, before fucking her, really fucking her, and slamming his big, hard cock inside of her warm, wet pussy.

"And what about Mom Gives Me a Birthday Blowjob?" She turned the page and started reading aloud. "She sucked my cock, while stroking me. I couldn't believe my Mom was giving me a blowjob and what a blowjob it was, the best blowjob I ever had. I told her that I was about to cum, but she didn't care. She told me that she swallows and she said it was okay if I cummed in her mouth, so I did and she swallowed all my cum," read Elizabeth from her son's story. "How are any of these good family stories about a mother's love for her son? They are all nothing but vile pornography."

"I really wasn't thinking of you giving me a blowjob, Mom," he said lying.

He couldn't count the number of times that he masturbated over the imagined image of his mother on her knees with his cock buried in her pretty mouth, while she looked up at him with her big, green eyes. Just as he was thinking about her sucking his cock then, he was thinking about her sucking his cock now. Hearing her read what he wrote and hearing her utter words that he never heard cross her lips was arousing. He couldn't wait to write another incestuous story of this scenario and of her finding his black binder filled with incestuous stories about her.

"Can it, Jason. For you to write that story, you had to imagine me blowing you and cumming in my mouth," she said staring up at him, before looking down at the book again. "And what about this new one, the only story not finished," she said holding up the open page of the story, before tossing the book to him. "This one is a real quality story, Mom Strips Naked for Nude Day," she said looking up at him with sarcasms. "How dare you? To think that I'd ever strip naked for you, my own son, will never happen in your my lifetime. What's wrong with you? How could you turn out to be such a sexually deranged monster. I'm appalled. I'm disgusted. I'm ill."

He wished his mother would embrace the nude holiday and strip naked. Throwing all of her sexual inhibitions aside, he wished they could celebrate the holiday together. Just once, he'd love to see his mother naked. He could only imagine the better story he'd write, if only he had his mother's naked body as his inspiration.

"I'm sorry, Mom, really I am but they're just stories," said Jason in his quiet voice and with his head down and his eyes cast to the floor in the way that he did, when he broke her vase, crashed her car, and after she discovered the beer party he had, when she went to see her mother over the long weekend. Mortified and sick to his stomach that she knew his secret, he picked up his book and tossed it on his bed beside her. "The stories are just part of my creative writing classes. It's all just fiction," he said looking up at her with a face full of shameful guilt.

What else could he say? There was nothing he could say to change her opinion of him and of his stories? As if he had sexually violated his mother by writing such explicit and graphic sexual content about her, there was no apology big enough for him to utter and for her to accept. Now that he was of legal age and with no place else to go, he feared her throwing him out of the house.