Mom's Tale

***COURTESY CONTENT FOREWARNING***

Dear reader, please note, what follows is an entirely fictitious story, in every aspect, that includes graphic description of sexual acts of consensual incest between adult human beings. If you are not absolutely certain that you do not find this subject matter objectionable, or if you are not 18 years of age or older, DO NOT continue to read the following story.

Jolene looked out the window of her son's room and down the street. There was no sign of his car coming. This was perhaps the fifth time she had checked for his approaching vehicle in the last ten minutes.

She'd scored big this time, he'd left his phone in his room - something he usually didn't do, he almost always took it with him when he left. What was she looking for? She wasn't really sure. Something, anything that might suggest...the foolish wish she carried around with her silently.

"You're a bored, lonely, hard up woman, Jolene. This is pathetic." She thought to herself.

All the same, she looked through the text messages...being "hard up" and therefore unusually curious about about the sexual deeds and desires of others, especially her son's - it was a cloak that draped snuggly around her shoulders. They read:

Jessica: "I'll bet you do you naughty boy."

"I do! All the time, like every night."

Jessica: "LOL, that's hawt. Kinda sick and wrong, but hawt."

"STFU, you're worse than me."

Jessica: "LOL true TTUL"

"Bye"

It wasn't much to go on, but she didn't like the implication in the exchange. They were obviously talking about something bad, dirty - most likely sex.

She'd never seen Jessica before but her mind created an image of her without any conscious effort. A pale-skinned, skinny-legged tramp in a short skirt with big bouncy boobs, nipples that pointed slightly upwards to heaven naturally, and dark, twin ponytails at either side of her head. They were less like ponytails, Jolene thought, and more like head-handles for her, what were no doubt, 20-odd boyfriends to grab onto when fucking her from behind. She undoubtably wanted her son's cock in her mouth. She could see the little tramp kneeling between his legs, stretching her mouth wide to accomodate and pleasure his thick shaft - having swooped in like a female Robin Hood of Spooge, making off with the stolen booty. Or perhaps more like an overly eager left fielder crossing over unabashed to the center to snag a fly ball from the mitt of his well-placed collegue and soaking in the cheers from the crowd in the recognizable manner of the Meat-Headed Ass. However, there was more than a tinge of personal and intentional harm in it, it seemed, to be sure. This loathsome bitch would covet, misappropriate, gobble and suck up all of Justin greedily for herself just to spite Jolene - just to figuratively spit it back on her, which almost sounded to appealing to Jolene, were that scenario the other way around.

Jolene felt pointed, hot jealousy rise within her "That fucking little, cloven-hoofed slut, ugh" she said as she stamped her foot. This single-minded, strawberry-nippled demon-slut, sired in the proverbial barbarian hoards of the North. A lowly bastard, surely concieved in the ashen dirt around a smoky fire pit by a druken mother and a father, whose face and name later escaped her whore-mother's recollection. She'd now come South to wreck similar, cum-drenched havoc in Jolene's private Rome.

Jolene felt the heavy hairclip atop her head pulling uncomfortably at her hair roots as it drooped under gravity. She re-adjusted the yellow clip, that looked like a banana and resembled an antique refrigerator magnet more than anything a woman ought to be putting in her hair. Despite the unspoken objection the rest of the world felt for that gaudy, garage sale clip, Jolene felt it made her look youthful and pretty. She loved the heavy weight of it and the smooth texture of glazed ceramic on her finger tips. As she fiddled with it, which she often did, the same series of repetitious thoughts would file orderly, train-like, through Jolene's mind. It was smooth like the skin on the head of a penis, she'd notice, but cold and so *not* like a penis, and yet it was a banana, which was so plainly phallic, and hence back to the penis again, but conversely, so *not* like a penis in that it was a hairclip. She couldn't seem to keep her hands off it, she was gripped by an addiction-like, automatic and unconscious compulsion to touch it, she noted, so very much like a penis.

She rifled through Justin's drawers, looking for a diary, although she was sure he didn't keep one. She'd looked for a diary in his room many times before and never met with success, but that never stopped her from wondering, never stopped her from looking for one yet another time. In his underwear drawer, her fingers met the abrupt corner of a book - a tiny electric shock of surprise and anticipation jolted her heart and ran quickly down her arms and out her fingertips.

She opened the book and where she expected to find writing, she found drawings instead. She didn't even know he could draw. It made sense though immediately, looking at his wall, adorned with what must be his favorite cartoon, or "anime" characters. She didn't like how sexually suggestive, even explicit, cartoons had become. Justin and his wall of cartoon sluts, probably drawn by the sexually frustrated 20-something male cubicle dwellers of Tokyo, slaving over spreadsheets during working hours, sketching provactive, idealized female forms on their lunch breaks in a men's room stall - those freaky little Asian perverts - jacking off to their own creations. All the same, she had to admit the artwork itself was very good.

On the first page of the book was a hand - he had a good eye for proportion, for a young artist. A ram skull, a sketch of woman sitting, an orchid - he was very good in fact, surprising. Well, not really, she reconsidered, the way he was so quiet and possessed that laser-like concentration when he worked on something, the way he naturally tuned everything out when he concentrated. It made sense he'd enjoy detailed work, work he could "zone-in" on. It was this manner that always made Jolene easily suspect that he was probably very good in bed - a sexual proficient, due to his natural inclination to master the activities he took pleasure in. Jolene frequently imagined cunnilingus being one of them.

Jolene flipped the page, her mouth literally dropped open and she blinked several times deliberately as if trying to moisten her eyes in an effort to see clearly, as if she needed a second look. The image was of her, and yet it wasn't entirely her. She, his mother, on her hands and knees sticking her butt out, appearing to look back at the viewer and...a pair of large ram's horns that appeared to grow out of the sides of her head. It was strange, dark, surreal and obviously sexual. With a lustful expression drawn into face that he'd borrowed from one of the images tacked to his wall. Her eyes shadowed in makeup and eyeliner, which Jolene then realized she hadn't worn in a long time. Almost reflexively, she found herself wondering where her eyeliner and blush had escaped to in recent months. They were probably in one of her drawers somewhere - she'd just have to look around a bit.

Despite the Ram's horns, which she didn't quite understand or appreciate, otherwise and Overall the drawing was a flattering, if slightly inaccurate, take on her body. Jolene wasn't about to object to being idealized, nor would any woman.

"I WISH my ass looked that good..." Jolene thought, remembering at one point that it had. Then she considered that perhaps it looked that good to *him* and she immediately felt better.

This drawing was much more detailed than the others. He'd obviously spent a lot of time on it. The area between her legs was unfinished though, there was no genetalia in the unfinished area and the inside lines of her thighs were incomplete. There was nothing else in the book following it. It was either the last thing he worked on or perhaps he was STILL working on it presently, the thought of which gave Jolene's heart another quick jolt and sent a tingling up from her gut to her fingers again.

She was still taking it in, still studying its strangeness, still adjusting to an arousal that was part wonderful and part awkward. Not exactly rushing through her, more like creeping up her limbs from her cold guilty palms that held the book of drawings, up the nerves that run the underside of arms, like water freezing,it spread and inched upward to her body's warm core like an uninvited guest. It was a cold sensation...pleasant...in the way that touching an ice sculpture can be pleasant...and uncomfortable at the same time.

The front door opened..."Oh, shit!" He'd arrived home and she hadn't noticed. She slid the book back into his drawer, closed it and flitted out of his room silently like a moth making its escape, shutting the door softly and silently behind her. A casual observer of her exit would have known straight away it wasn't the first time she had nearly been caught snooping in his room. The smooth, quiet manner of her reaction, her trained instincts, the instant sublimation of the panic that would accompany such a situation, that recognizable calm under pressure - it reeked of much practice.

He'd been so protective of his room lately, so moody...she hoped it wasn't drugs, but knew she'd have to look to be sure, even if she didn't want too. She didn't like invading his privacy. Of course, this was...a total crock of shit and she knew it, but that's what'd she'd say if he ever caught her snooping in his room.

The cold rush of panic partially sublimated still lingered in her limbs, tickling under her entire surface, though it was subsiding. Whew, that was a little too close...she could still feel the adrenaline working it's way through the muscles in her limbs. Pesky, she thought, how it stuck around like that when it wasn't needed.

"Hey Mom"

"He-..." Her voice cracked. She hadn't spoken outloud in awhile, she realized, and her throat had become dry. She cleared her throat. "Hm - hey hun."

Justin did the usual - went straight to his room. She'd invaded his privacy enough times to be fairly certain she'd covered her tracks, but there was always the chance of that one thing that might have escaped her attention and been left out of place. Justin's bedroom door opened, there was a pause. Had he noticed? Had he seen that one thing that was surely askew, that was always there, despite her best efforts? His door shut again. Phew, no, she was safe...and as expected, his door didn't open again for the rest of the evening.

On her back in bed that night, after they'd both retired to sleep, she saw his drawing when she closed her eyes. She wondered if he was still up, maybe working on it at that very moment. She visualized him drawing, imagined him staring at the paper in front of him, imagining her naked body and bringing it into reality to pleasure himself with her image. She was starting to get wet. She put her hand between her legs and traced her wet crease with the tip of her finger. As she gently massaged herself, Justin's head appeared and rose between his legs. She leaned her head back, staring at the ceiling in anticipation. He softly, gently licked her slit up and down, more like simply tasting her at first. He quickly, impatiently shiftied his focus to her clit, engulfing it in his mouth, sucking on it, gently licking her, making love to her womanhood with his mouth, then pushing his mouth against her crotch harder, as if wanting her to cum all over his lovely -- AHHHHHHHH -- face ---- OHHHH - she grabbed his head on both sides, pulling his face into her harder, pressing herself into his mouth with her hips, as the most intense part of her orgasm came and went. AHHHH, she lay on her back, slightly spent, the last of her warm orgasm edging off into the distance. The excitment the drawing made her feel had been replaced with uneasiness. Maybe it wasn't what she had hoped and she read too much into it. Perhaps he was just playing around, experimenting as an artist with his boundaries. Afterall, there was no genetalia - what did that mean? There was enough gray area and doubt that she couldn't confront him about it although she wanted to. To do so would be to invite him to deny it, dismiss it as folly, even if there were some truth to it. She couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk giving him a reason to retreat into his shell. She'd give anything, she thought, just to be inside his head for a moment and know for sure...what he wanted, even if it was nothing. Not knowing, wondering, as she had for so long, seemed worse...there was no end to it.

He might be leaving for the weekend to go up to Canada, she remembered. She didn't really want him to go, but it had been a long time it seemed since she had the house to herself. She'd break out that old bag of weed that was going dry and stale, she thought, and go shopping for cucumbers. Maybe in the opposite order...she didn't like being in public stoned. She'd make a grand weekend out of it, she thought. She'd smoke until she found herself in that cartoon-like world, and everything looked like the drawings on Justin's wall. By then she'd be horny as a goat and she'd fuck herself stupid with generously-sized produce in her son's bed. Maybe she'd discreetly smear his pillow with her cum so that when he layed down to go to sleep he'd smell her womanly essence and become subconsciously aroused. Perhaps then, responding on sexual instinct, drawn to her instinctually by her phermones like a honey bee, he'd make his way to her room, rip the covers off her in the dead of night and fuck the holy hell out of her, sheathing and unsheathing her on his cock like a limp ragdoll, mercilessly, while she came 10,000 times and howled like a rabid, red-eyed wolf at the full blue moon. Oh, if that happened she'd howl until she was hoarse. Mom had some tricks of seduction up her sleeve, she thought, - she'd seen that one on the Discovery Channel. Something to that effect anyway...marking one's territory.

And oh, Jolene took her time at the grocery store alright. She took her sweet time indeed...in the produce section. She had all weekend and it would go to complete waste if the selection was not done properly because it was rushed. Her eyes searched over the jumbled mass of freshly misted cucumbers for sale - it's on, she thought - it's GAME TIME.

"Where's momma's perfect little pickle? Where are you, you little prick, I know you're in here...somewhere." This was all so exciting. Jolene had looked forward to this all week. If you'd asked Jolene at that particular moment, she'd have told you that weekends "Fucking Rocked!!" as far as she was concerned.

Some were more "challenging" than others, this was true, but she wasn't in the mood for a challenge. She wanted the *almost* perfect fit. Slightly hidden underneath, in the corner of the pile, she saw him, her Champion. Glistening with mist in all his rubust splendor. A quiet confidence convayed in its immediately respectable eight inches - and possessing a girth that made her wonder, made her slightly call into question her ability to accomodate. He was just right. The fresh, ripe color or dark, rich green. He was the cucumber equilvalent of an 18-year old, varsity quarterback, in his absolute prime and yet too young and arrogant to realize it.

"You're a very bad boy aren't you. I know what you want. You're comin' home with momma, you bad little boy." She placed it in the child's seat of the shopping cart where she could keep a good eye on it, occasionally glancing down at him and feeling the warm, satisfied sensation of good fortune that a better-than-expected purchase brings. Had the planet's aligned? Was it her year in the Chinese Zodiac? No, she was an expert in these matters - it was all her, she later decided.

Plus, she'd learned from experience - humbling, embarrassing experience - that, in this town, it isn't wise to simply walk up to a cashier with a cucumber and a bottle of lube and expect them to keep a straight face. People aren't stupid and cashiers typically aren't paid well enough to be discreet. She'd wrongly assumed that once when she'd gone to the store to "stock up" after having too much to drink. She remembered thinking "Ahhhh, they're not paying attention and even if they are - BAHHH - they don't care". However, they always are, and they always do, for reasons she accepted long ago she would never understand in the slightest. That's just people - one must fully expect that they will never pass up an opportunity to disappoint. She had to be realistic with these things now. She probably could have gotten away with it had she lived in Arizona perhaps, but not in this pin-sphinctered, flog-thy-neighbor, Puritan orgy of wholesomeness. If their collective self-righteousness was a cock, then the townspeople's favorite recreation was butt-raping whomever amongst themselves they could find an excuse to butt-rape, as fully justified and warranted in the town statutes, of course. It was, as you'd expect with these types, perfectly legal, even encouraged, a form of entertainment, in a stasi-flavored, civic duty kind of way. The kind that garners pats on the back and praise as unspoken assurance, points earned among his fellows, that should the whistle-blower ever slip up in the future, his past "good deeds" would be remembered, and he would not be similarly humiliated. This of course was a lie, a deception, worthy of Judas, the jew. For no one was ever exempt, no amount of previous compliance was ever valued at a later date. A merciless, systematic sieve of punishment, the unblinking public eye ever watchful at the apex of the current moment for the next offence.

She certainly didn't want to relive:

"Price check on aisle three. Need a price check on cucumbers, vaseline, latex gloves, Hustler magazine, aisle three...for the lady in the green dress. Yeah, the horny looking one, that's her, the pervert...that drives the blue pickup and lives in the two story brick house on Haversham Lane, works at the library, in the A.V. section...hello?...anyone?..."

Typically masked in an everyday, civil exchange, the public lashing continued: "Ma'am, all of our associates seem to be on break...do you mind waiting another fifteen, twenty minutes? We've got a long line forming behind you. I'll just put your things to the side here for a moment, next to the register in plain sight. Woah, looks like half the town's here tonight (!) - this NEVER happens at 3 a.m, how odd! I can help the next customer please! You there, step up, don't forget to gawk at the pervert's purchases before you leave. Wait a moment - don't go anywhere ma'am. Stay right here so the other customers can memorize your face, I mean, so you don't loose you place in line."

At home, Jolene got Bob Marleyed rather quickly. She found herself remembering how much she LOVED Led Zepplin and then noticed she hadn't even taken off her clothes yet! Oh well, she thought, she had plenty of weed to keep it going. Zep was SOOOO good, genius really - how could she have forgotten? She lay there for what seemed like a long time listening to the melodic intricasies that always went unnoticed while sober. A few hits later and she was where she wanted to be - in slow-motion cartoon world, her heartbeat thumping in her ears, her throat starting to get dry. Damn, her nipples were starting to get hard - fuckin' *hell* yes. It was time - she went around the house, closing all the drapes and dropping all the blinds. If those Puritan fucks across the street only knew what she would be doing shortly.Good thing she set the video camera up in advance in Justin's room, she thought - she was pretty toasty - all she had to do now was turn it on - she could manage that.