Happy twentieth story to me
Happy twentieth story to me......
To celebrate, I have a new series. A fictional, incestuous tale of mother and son, of dangerous and sometimes impersonal, hot sex, and a sense of disbelief.
I hope you enjoy. Your feedback helps my ideas form.
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At the time it first happened, I was a far cry from the sultry protagonists in most of these stories.
Samantha, Houston, Sammie to my friends, I'm neither tall, thin, blonde nor, in my opinion, drop dead gorgeous. I am 5 foot 5, and no matter how many workouts I'll ever do, I'll always have a somewhat pronounced potbelly, from having both my kids by 23 years old, with my 36DD breasts jutting out over it, in my non-sexy, underwired white bra. Working out had helped to keep my ass trim, and I had looked after myself for almost all of my 41 years, but I just had to face facts long ago that my body was built with natural curves.
Also, I haven't been abandoned by my husband either, nor was I sex starved, regularly enjoying the sights and feelings of Mike, my husband, having his nose buried in my dark brown bush, as he snuffles at my pussy before he impaled me with his 6 inch rod.
We had a son and daughter, she was living with her boyfriend, Marcus, at university. Thomas, my son and only child still living at home, had never been the academical sort and had left school at 17, enrolling in an apprenticeship to become a mechanic, as he had always had a keen interest in cars. As a result, Mike's Dad, Thomas's grandfather, had agreed that if he could get it going and back on the road, Thomas could have his 1968 Ford Mustang, that had fallen into dilapidation.
For six weeks, Thomas and Mike had did nothing with their spare time other than take this pile of shite apart, to see how bad it really was. The answer was quite clear, it was awful. In some places, my husband had said that it was the rust that was holding it together, but that generally, the body was sturdy enough.
Work at it they did, every night and I asked them what they were going to do with it whenever they were done. They told me they, setting themselves a goal date of 1 year, they were going to enter it in a vintage rally across the Scottish Highlands, to raise money for cancer research. To say I was a proud Mum was an understatement, but secretly I doubted that they would ever get this thing back on the road by next March. Of course, my son was documenting his every move for his course, under guidance of his mate Ben, who was a year older than him and helped out, when Mike was at work.
Summer came, and the Mustang was taking shape, now almost distinguishable as a Ford Mustang. I had appointed myself my two boys' chief assistant, bringing them lemonade, sandwiches and biscuits. I also noticed that I also brought them both a good eyeful of cleavage at times. My husband checking out my tits was fine, as for Thomas, seeing my son hold a good stare down my tank top, blouse or t-shirt as I placed their their refreshments down before them, left me smiling, but curiously distracted.
My son was not built like Arnold Schwarzeneggerr, with flowing locks and a 10 inch cock (not that I knew that then) but was a quite a scrawny, 5 foot 7 boy, and by the time it happened he was an 18 years old, with a girlfriend, called Shannon. Annoyingly, I had yet to meet Shannon, after a 3 month relationship I was maybe being slightly over zealous, but he got very shy whenever I brought the subject up, like there was something to hide.
My husband was an oil rig worker, and was away for weeks on end, and they would time it almost to perfection so that Mike would be there for all the heavy stuff. Ben was also a great help, until that one night late August, when the sun had been high all day and the temperature was searing and sticky.
From the garage at the side of the house, I could hear swearing from my son, and expecting to find his friend helping him as usual when his Dad was away, Thomas was underneath the car that was on its ramp, cursing and swearing at something.
"What's wrong?" I asked, as he thumped, underneath the wheel arch.
"This fucking thing won't go fucking on right. It's really fucking pissing me off now!"
There's something about watching a man working with his hands, something carnal and erotic. I used to get wet while watching my husband working on his car, seeing him probing at things, twisting other things with his fingers, contrasting lightly feathering things into place, with taking a hammer and pounding things into submission.
As he had said these words he had looked at me, standing in my Jeans shorts and pink tank top and already regretting my decision to take my bra off. I offered to help and he said thanks, and he had me holding a piece of metal with a hole on the end. I have no idea what it was, but as he stood again and stretched up beside me, our bodies being this close together felt different. I briefly caught him looking at my chest, as my arms being stretched upwards had pulled the material of my top, together with my unhindered tits, together. I was shamefully displaying quite a lot of deep cleavage.
Just then, he nipped his finger, before he threw his tools to the ground and peppered the air with more swearwords. I knew that there was something else bothering him, call it mother's instinct or whatever, and I asked, "Thomas! Enough with the swearing, let me see that cut," I said and went to get a plaster.
Holding his hand between us, I cleaned it with an antiseptic wipe, but I could tell there was something more to it than what looked like a small paper cut. Looking up, seeing his eyes flick away from my chest, I took a moment to process that, and as I secured a little plaster on his finger, asked, "Thomas, now what is really wrong? And why is Ben not here?"
Not looking at me, he was firming down the band aid on the small cut when he replied, "The same reason Shannon isn't here. They're probably fucking right now!"
Again, I admonished him for the language, but probed a little deeper and he lowered his hands, turned to walk away and said, "She was getting annoyed because I'm always here. He took her out to a friend's and.....you know."
I crossed the garage floor to where he had stopped to drop the used pieces of bloodied tissue in the bin. With him being only 2 inches taller than me, I turned him around and made him look me in the eyes. "Thomas, are you sure? You go back a long way with Ben," I said, but when he handed me his mobile phone from his pocket and showed me pictures of them kissing, it was all too plain to see.
I didn't know how serious it had been, how intimate they had been together, or even if my son was a virgin. As I flicked through the pictures, seeing Ben cup the buxom brunette's plump butt cheeks in his hands, it would suggest that, at least those two, were not. As I looked, I realised that I had been lingering too long, as it thundered down upon me why my son had not brought his girlfriend home.
What with her dark brown hair and her chunky build, Thomas had been dating the very definition of his mother in her younger days.
Looking up, I handed him back his phone as, again, his eyes quickly darted up from my tits. I was already perspiring from the humid heat, but as the revelation hammered home that my son was sexually attracted to me, I thought that I would melt into a puddle on the garage floor.
Just then, my son asked me if I would hold something for him again. He directed me to hold this metal arm type of thing in place, while he took his hammer and started to go at it. He looked at me and asked if I was alright, and as he looked down to my up-stretched stretched tits again, I felt a tingle in my knickers. "I'm....yeah, I'm fine," I croaked.
He then explained what he was trying to do, and as he held the other interlinking part, he explained, "You see that part you have, my part is supposed to slip inside it, but I had to replace the bushing, and new bushes are very tight so if it won't go back in, I'll have to take the whole bloody thing off again.
I smirked at his newsflash on tight bushes and his part slipping into mine as I held the part as he tried again. It was useless, and he scolded himself for doing things the wrong way around, "I can't even get this fucking thing right, I should have done this bit first.....Dad will be so fucking disappointed when he gets home that I can't even do simple things right!"
I could see that this was about much more than a stupid car part, "Let's sit down and take a break," I suggested, and I told him I would get us both a drink.
Coming back out, he had sat down on a little, flat, wheeled trolly that I knew was used to slide underneath cars. He had got me a slightly higher wheeled stool type object to sit on, and as I did, handing him his drink of juice, I said, "Ok, out with it."
"What?" He said, looking up at me.
"Thomas Houston," I said, leaning forwards and stroking the side of his cheek with my right hand, "You've been beating that old car up all evening. Now, are you going to carry on, and eventually have to re-do it, or are you going to tell me what's eating at you?"
I knew I was leaning forward, giving him a direct view of particularly my right, but basically both my breasts. He didn't look at my face, but kept his eyes lower as he said, "It's awkward, Mum. It's kinda like, I've did the ground work for Ben, with her, and now he's getting the rewards."
"Son," I said, setting my drink down and scooting closer to him, reaching to guide his eyes up to mine. I had to, the way my boobs sat between my knees as I stretched downwards to my son on my little, low seat, was borderline pornographic now. No bra, tank top gaping and tits pressed together, I almost turned myself on. "It maybe just wasn't meant to be. I had 3 boyfriends before I met your Dad."
He smirked, shook his head and I asked him what was wrong. "It's not really her that I'm mad at. Ben is a fucking asshole, he was supposed to be my best friend."
I could see my son was really hurt, and again dragged myself closer still. "Come here," I said As I opened my arms and I hugged him tightly between my legs, as he sat on his knees between them. I cupped his head, and brought his wayward gaze to my eyes and said, "Some day, you and Ben might laugh about this. Don't be throwing him in the bin, just yet. As for Shannon......"
"To hell with Shannon," he spat, then he shocked me when he continued, "I don't really care about her. She's a slut! Sure, I only asked her out because she fucking looks like......"
Already knowing the answer to this question, my heartbeat then sped up. The way we were positioned, with him on his knees in front of me, I looked straight into his eyes at arms length and said, "Who, son. Who does Shannon look like?"
