My Badly Ept Secret

It's taken me awhile to get up the nerve to tell anyone outside of my immediate family about all of this. But I'm here now, the keyboard waits expectantly, and I feel the need to tell you my story.

I suppose that it started for me about the time our son Bobby first started dating girls on a regular and serious basis. He was 18 then, a late starter. Right from his birth I'd kept track of his gradual physical development, as all mothers do in our need to know that our children are growing up in a normal and healthy manner. Once Bobby got past puberty, I was reassured each time he passed another of the usual milestones that mark a boy's journey toward manhood - his growing interest in girls and in the mysteries of sex, his increasingly frequent and vigorous masturbation (the telltale signs in the laundry hamper are unmistakable), and his attempts to appear a lot more sophisticated and worldly-wise than he really was.

Something new and different was happening in my life at this same time, and it was more than a little disturbing. It wasn't Bobby's behavior that was amiss. It was mine. As I witnessed the clear signs of Bobby's maturing masculinity, my reactions to those signs were not at all what my rational mind told me they should be.

It's important for you to know that I've always had a rich and vivid imagination. Erotic fantasy has always played a significant role in my sexual behavior and satisfaction. I doubt that any woman has more deliciously filthy masturbation fantasies than I do. A certain Hollywood hunk, who shall remain nameless here, fucks me at least once a week without him even knowing about it. But I know it. I can feel him in me.

And here's how my erotic imagination is significant in my story: At some point my handsome and physically appealing son began popping up, uninvited and unexpected, in my erotic fantasies.

His first appearances were innocuous enough. They usually occurred when I tried to imagine what mischief Bobby might be up to on his dates with those cute young girl friends of his. That was fun for me, and I got very good at building sexy plotlines along those lines, but that was only the beginning. Soon I was imagining myself as one of those teen temptresses, and I'd imagine what mischief I'd like to get into with Bobby on our imaginary dates, as both of us explored our emerging youthful sexuality. This was a whole lot better. It was hotter. I had a nagging suspicion that a loving mother probably shouldn't be having these kinds of nasty secret thoughts, but I was having far too much fun to let that worry me.

My fantasies went a lot further, and quickly. Here are two examples: In a favorite fantasy of mine, the one where a group of young studs take turns gangbanging me, Bobby would now be one of my fuckers - and the only one who made me cum despite my efforts not to reveal my enjoyment of the outrage. In another fantasy, this time the one where my husband Sam and I pick up a married couple at a party and lure them into a swap-and-share romp, the other man would, just at the moment he first brought me to a shattering orgasm, assume Bobby's lewdly grinning face. This was becoming truly weird.

I had to start trimming my fingernails more closely. My pussy was getting sore.

Here I was, already into my forties, and I found myself feeling sexual desire for a boy who had just turned 19. Not just any boy, mind you. My boy. My only child. My Bobby.

I felt that I was failing as a mother. I felt that I was failing as a wife. If I was in any way a religious person I would have considered my secret urges sinful. I felt like a criminal. I felt ashamed. I felt dirty. I felt abnormal. I wondered if I might be suffering from some mental disorder or deficiency. And through it all I felt a naughty excitement that I knew I wasn't supposed to feel.

In some ways I felt very much as I had when I was a teen myself and first experiencing the powerful urges of sex. Back then I'd happily experiment with kissing and touching and other sexy games, arousing both my boyfriends and myself in ways that I knew were naughty. In fact, the naughtier the better. That naughtiness was at the very heart of my enjoyment of it all, and now I was feeling naughtier than I'd ever felt before. And more alive. It was scaring me.

I knew it was all just fantasy, but it shocked me nonetheless. A year earlier I would not have believed that anything in fantasy had the power to shock me. Still, I thought I had the matter more or less under control, and my secret and confused emotions weren't hurting anyone but me.

Bobby had seen his parents flirt teasingly with each other for years. Sam and I used our flirting skills on each other a lot, both for fun and as a way for us to keep our relationship fresh and alive. When Bobby was a child, that sort of banter could be crudely sexual in nature, as Bobby didn't understand any of the sexy words. I suppose he could tell that it was a fun sort of adult game, but beyond that he understood none of it. As he grew up, the sexual references in our games had to become more euphemistic, richer in innuendo and double-entendre, which made them even more fun for us. And probably even more mysterious to Bobby.

But now Bobby was learning how to flirt effectively himself, and he was beginning to hone his flirting skills on me. I knew that real seduction wasn't on Bobby's mind - he respected me and my commitment to his father too much for that - but it was fun for him and he could see that I wasn't offended by it. I was careful not to encourage him, but women my age can't help but be pleased to find themselves the object of a young man's flirtations.

What he couldn't know was that his actions were tearing me apart inside. They were making it increasingly difficult for me to keep my bizarre fantasies separate from the realities of my life. Bobby's adorably awkward attempts to tease me were having a far more powerful effect on me than he could possibly have imagined. He was seducing me without even knowing that he had the power to do such a thing.

My husband Sam actually seemed to enjoy watching our son practicing his craft on me. I assumed that Sam was just showing his pride in Bobby's steady progress toward a robust manhood. I believed that I was successfully concealing from everyone my eagerness to respond to to my son's words and amateurish touches. I was wrong about that. Sam noticed it.

* * * * *

It was very late one night, some time later, that Sam chose to bring the subject up with me. His timing, as always, was perfect. He and I were cuddling in the delicious warm afterglow of an especially good lovemaking session. Our hands moved in idle caresses over each other's gradually relaxing bodies, but then two of Sam's fingers slyly slipped between my pussy lips and began to fingerfuck me, gently but steadily. This caught me by surprise, because it wasn't usual for him to restart things after both of us had clearly had our current needs fully satisfied. His lips nibbled at my nearer earlobe, and then he whispered to me in that slow and sleepy voice that is such a lovely part of such moments.

"You want to fuck Bobby, don't you babe," he said, in a matter-of-fact and non-accusing way.

My entire body tensed so suddenly that I didn't have to answer the question directly. Sam knew that he'd struck a nerve in my psyche.

Sam whispered on. "It's OK, babe. Lots of mothers have those urges."

I remained silent. It was hardly a defence, but it was all that I had to work with.

"And he'd fuck you in a moment if you ever gave him the chance," he went on.

"What?" I gasped in shock. "What makes you think that?" I asked, seriously wanting to know and aware that I was dangerously close to formally validating Sam's assessment of the situation.

"Lots of horny teen boys have jerk-off daydreams about their moms," he said. "I sure had lots of hot ones about mine."

"You never told me that before," I said, honestly shocked by his confession.

"I never got into my mother's panties," he said. "So I figure it didn't count."

Ignoring the madness of male logic, I asked him why he'd brought up this whole weird subject at this time.

"Because I can see how bothered you are by the way he's been teasing you. You obviously want him to want you, hon. You might feel a whole lot better if you just gave in to your natural lust, fucked the hell out of him, and got it over with."

"That's the craziest thing you've ever said to me", I said, trying hard to believe my own words. My pussy tingled at the idea, all on its own. Sam's fingers were no longer doing their thing inside me, and I was already starting to miss them.

"Bobby will feel better once his virginity is no longer an issue for him," Sam said. "Look, sweetheart, I won't bring this up again. It's up to you and Bobby. You can do it or not, but I think it would be good for both of you."

There was a long silence. It wasn't an awkward silence. It was thinking time, which I badly needed just then.

"Wait a minute!" I said, still trying to make sense of this strange conversation. "Why is this so important to you? What's in it for you?"

"I'd like to watch," he said, and then he turned away from me and was asleep in less than a minute.

I was awake for at least the next two hours. For a lot of that time my fingers were continuing to do what my husband's fingers had been doing down there between my legs. I wished that they were Bobby's fingers. And then I wished that they were Bobby's cock.

* * * * *

I felt wonderfully liberated in the days that followed my pillowtalk chat with Sam. No matter what might or might not happen between Bobby and me, I knew now that neither my marriage nor my son were going to be destroyed by it. And I wasn't crazy!

When Bobby was at home, I dressed to tease him. I retrieved various articles of clothing from cartons stored in the back of closets, where they'd gone when I thought they were a bit too snug or a bit too revealing to be tasteful on a woman of my age. Around the house I started to wear seductive underwear, and stockings, and shoes with greater-than-mid-height heels. I didn't have to wait for some special occasion to justify their use now, because now every day was a special occasion for me. I wanted every part of my mature figure to be very much on display, and if Bobby caught a glimpse of a lacy bra cup or panty hem or garter strap as I moved about the house, so much the better.

I even began to pose for Bobby. I found excuses to bend over to pick things up off the floor, or to reach for things on very high or very low cupboard shelves. I knew that at such moments an already short skirt would slip up even higher on my thighs, or the seat of tight pants would stretch itself even more snugly over the swells of my buttocks. Bobby would openly stare in speechless wonder, so Sam would have to speak for him, saying something like, "Great legs, babe! How about showing us another inch or so of them!" or "Damn! Those pants look about to pop wide open and spill your pantied ass right out in full view ... not that either of us would mind!"

Bobby seemed a bit stunned by it all, as if his fantasies were coming true in ways that he'd never expected they would. He may have been stunned, but he knew a good thing when he saw it. His flirtations became bolder, and they now met with open acceptance and returns of the sexy play from me. Sometimes he would glance nervously at his father, worried that Sam might have noticed his behavior and my reaction to it, but Sam was always either ignoring us completely or enjoying our little games as much as we were.

Sam had long been in the habit of giving my ass a playful slap when it was within reach and clad in some curves-revealing garment. It was a carefully choreographed routine. The slap would bring a squeal of feigned surprise and a glare of annoyance at Sam from me. Every time. That was my part in the game. Sam would then give Bobby a man-to-man wink of shared macho mischief. Bobby, even as a young boy, had found this little performance endlessly amusing and would laugh aloud at it. Every time.

Now Bobby felt bold enough to take Sam's role in the game. He would slap my butt and then remove his hand from my bottom, slowly, just as he'd so often seen his father do. After my obligatory squeal, I would glare at Sam (for teaching our boy such naughty behavior), but I would give Bobby a quick smile or a quick cheek kiss for his much-appreciated attention.

I always made sure that my heels gave my ass the best possible motion as I moved about the house, as if inviting more of those naughty slaps. Sometimes, after having had my ass slapped, I'd rub my hands over the seat of my skirt or pants as I walked from the room, for added effect.

The normal motherly hugs and kisses that I shared with Bobby now took on an added degree of sensuality. Our hugs were now more intense, our usual cheek kisses were now sometimes squarely-on-the-lips kisses, and I gave him some hints about tongue use in kissing which I told him his girlfriends would appreciate. I told him that practicing these new skills was necessary for him, and I didn't have to tell him how much I enjoyed his practice sessions with me. All of our physical expressions of affection, however routine and mundane they'd been in the past, now lasted longer and became distinctly more meaningful.

I'd known for some time that Bobby had some porn magazines hidden up on the high shelf in his bedroom closet. In the past I'd always carefully avoided touching his secret cache, saving him the embarrassment of knowing that it had been discovered. But now I would occasionally take down a magazine, open it to a particularly sexy picture, and leave a stick-on note on it saying something like, "I like this one myself!" Sometimes I'd leave a pair of my previously worn panties in the bathroom, as if by mistake, knowing that he would 'borrow' them for use as a masturbation aid. The laundry hamper would hold the evidence until I wanted to see it (and smell it) for myself.

Bobby was getting steadily better at playing the games with me. He'd walk from his bedroom to the kitchen for a late snack, bare-chested or in just his college logo'd T-shirt above his boxers or jockey shorts, knowing that I'd probably catch a glimpse of him somewhere along the way. He would leave his door open just a crack when he masturbated, knowing that I could get a peek at him if I passed by at just the right moment.

One of his girlfriends insisted that he learn how to 'slow dance', and I offered to teach him a simple foxtrot, the first ballroom step I'd learned as a girl. We spent a few hours practicing together, over the next two weeks, and soon we were able to dance close together with little risk of stepping on one another's toes. We quickly abandoned the sedate 'dance class' position and opted for the more sensuous one favored by romancing couples: His arms around my waist, my arms around his neck, our faces nearly touching as if about to kiss. And kiss we did, at the end of each song we danced to. And sometimes during the songs, too.

Sex with Sam was, if this is possible, even better than it usually was. In the heat of our shared passion I'd call him Bobby, which fueled my fantasies, and he'd call me Mom, which fueled his. I don't know if Bobby ever heard us do that but, beyond making sure that our bedroom door was firmly closed, we took no special precautions to prevent our being overheard.

* * * * *

And then, one day, I just knew that the time was right for Bobby and me. I still have no idea what made me so sure about it. I suppose I'd simply crossed some invisible emotional line, without even being aware that the line had been there all along. I told Sam that I felt ready to take the ultimate step in the gradual mutual seduction that Bobby and I had been engaged in for some time. I felt that Bobby was ready too.

"This may be your last chance to speak up and stop me if you want to," I said. "You know that I would never do anything to hurt you."

"Are you kidding?" he laughed. "I wanted this to happen before you even thought about it! But I really would like to watch you two at it, even if I have to hide in a closet or something to do it."

"I want you to watch us," I said. "I want you to know everything that happens between Bobby and me. It will be my way of letting you share the experience with us."

"Maybe someday I'll really be there with you two, and Bobby and I can take turns fucking you until you beg for mercy."

"Sam! You are so awful!" I gasped. "Which is why I love you so much," I added, kissing him wetly and grinding my pudendum over the noticeable bulge which his cock, even in its relaxed state, made in his pants.

Sam and I tried to think of a pre-planned situation where Bobby and I might reasonably be moved to have sex, one where the situation would appear to be totally spontaneous. Together we devised what seemed to be a workable plan, one which would enable Sam to be a voyeur at our son's first fuck, and we picked a date in the following week that worked for my personal cycle.

I felt the same giddy anticipation I'd felt in the days leading up to my high school Senior Prom, and later in the days leading up to my Wedding Day. Just as I did before both of those occasions, I hoped that I had the courage to carry off my part in them with grace and aplomb.

On both of those occasions I'd also hoped that at least one good orgasm would be part of the coming Big Night. Of those two occasions, only my Wedding Night delivered in that regard, but ultimately this was a good thing. In the months that followed my Senior Prom, I was glad that I hadn't wasted my virginity on the immature nerd that I discovered my date for that night truly was.

Considering the wonderful orgasms I'd been enjoying in Sam's arms when he was pretending to be Bobby, I thought the odds of our son bringing me to those same heights of pleasure were pretty good. And I planned to milk every drop of cum out of my son that his balls could produce on our first night together, no matter how long it took me to drain him very dry. That thought made me very wet.

* * * * *

The appointed day came. In the morning, still in my bathrobe, I made a big show of kissing Sam goodbye at our front door. He was ostensibly off for a two-day business trip, but of course he had no intention of missing the events of the coming evening. I had no idea how he planned to spend his day, but I knew he'd be around the house somewhere soon after nighttime fell. His goodbyes to Bobby, shouted over his shoulder as he walked out to the car, included telling our son to look after me in his absence and to not give me a hard time about anything. We both waved to him as he drove away. One of Bobby's hands had come to rest gently on the uppermost swell of my buttocks, even before Sam's car had left the driveway. I removed it gently, but not before he got the message that I didn't really mind it being there.

A half hour later I said, "It's going to be just you and me for a couple of days, Bobby," as I kissed him goodbye and sent him off to his morning classes. He couldn't resist a chance to practice his tongue-kissing techniques with me, and I couldn't resist returning his kiss wetly. By the time the kiss ended my pulse and breathing rates were significantly elevated, but I managed to say, "You're getting very good at this, darling. Keep up the good work!"

The day passed, albeit at a rate that seemed impossibly slow, but eventually the day was winding down pretty much as it usually did when Sam was not going to be home for dinner. Bobby had attended to his class assignments after he got home from school, dinner for the two of us was over, the kitchen cleanup chores had been completed, and Bobby and I were sitting on the Family Room sofa watching a classic old movie on television.