My Trainer

The first time that he made any comment about my breasts floored me. I was so completely shocked and amazed that he would make a sexist remark about my figure and then stand there smiling at me, that my feeble response to this out-of-the-blue "joke" was to haltingly laugh it off. Since that time, he seemed almost emboldened to make more, and pointedly lewd observations concerning my build while I made silly excuses for his abhorrent behavior. He steadily progressed to groping me and feeling almost free, to fondle my boobs at his every whim.

I struggle with my conscience to find a reasonable cause why I didn't slap him that first instance and then went-on to allow even more transgressions against my privacy, while justifying or merely playing along with his emerging aggressive tendencies. Even now, I say to myself that if he "crosses this 'red line' I'll spank him down." But far too many lines have been passed with very little consequence except to prove to him that I am a very sheltered and submissive woman who can be easily manipulated by a strong personality. Even when these inconvenient sexual circumstances concern me and my son.

My name is Alexandra and I'm a 39-year-old single mother of a twenty-one-year-old son, Robert. The previous three years have been a blur of my reborn sexual activity and an eerie acknowledgement of the realization that my morals can be compromised by my cravings. I was never married and Robbie's father never even met him, he was shipped-out to the military before either of us knew I was pregnant and died in a training maneuver. The two of us have grown to be each other's best friend since then and I had babied him until he literally got too big. He got into boxing during high-school and was one injury away from making the Olympic Team in his senior season. I'm sort of short and squatty while he has stretched out and filled in. I became his biggest fan and an enabling apologist. I may have lived too much on his glory, almost surrendering my own formative years to being his mother.

I was constantly building-up his ego and making excuses for his set-backs, leaving little outward doubt that my life became subservient to his. And this familial dynamic grew evermore twisted. It soon placed us on equal footing, to be slanted towards his persona overshadowing mine. It smacked me in the face on that day he first mentioned my tits. I am naturally curvy and that has never been a problem for me or for anyone who ogled my figure for the previous thirty-five years. But I did notice that some of those curves started to droop and grow lumpy. And I guess Robbie did too. He hassled me into joining him for some of his training.

I could walk under a six-foot ladder while wearing a top hat, and ideally my weight would tip the scales at about 125 pounds but though the ages didn't affect my height, gravity and donuts left my bottom looking like a half-empty sack of potatoes. My tits were a generous package of 34Ds, which on my small frame gave the appearance of a rather welcoming front porch. But when I undressed at night and scanned my reflection with a critical eye, I sensed that my boobs took-up more space on my chest than before and that the wafer-sized nipples no longer straight ahead. Not wanting to look like a Humpty-Dumpty version of "Ring-Side Rosie" at his bouts, I asked my son for some tips to keep my weight down and my figure under control. He readily agreed to take me on as his trainee.

I gradually managed to run a few laps around the track with him without suffering a coronary and could perform about forty sit-ups as he rattled-off multiple sets of one hundred. It was when I saw him jumping rope that started us down the wayward path to degradation. We were out around the pool and he usually finished his routine with a few laps back and forth. Before he did, he sometimes skipped rope. That's where I could have- or maybe should have- kept my big mouth shut.

One afternoon, he was really building-up a sweat whipping the leather cord around his glistening torso as his feet barely left contact with the grass. The clickety-clack of the whistling line as it encircled his dancing form attracted my attention, and I was mesmerized by this striking figure of manhood. His lean muscles grew taut and each fiber and sinew rippled as he glided through his exercise. The veins in his arms were like wire cables and his thick chest and sculpted shoulders were like a Greek statue in motion. He wore only heavy boots and grey flannel trunks that were quickly discoloring from perspiration and I marveled at the smooth function of his muscular and respiratory system. He has my dark eyes and swarthy complexion so the brutal sun only deepened his skin tone and plastered his short-cropped hair to his scalp.

When he paused his routine and I caught his eye, I could only swallow deeply and smile with admiration. But thinking back on it, I believe that this may have been the first moment that I contemplated his arousing physique as more than just a human weapon for delivering pain. It was the first time that I remember feeling that warm flush in my pussy, while gazing at my son's sexy body. A sharp tingle seemed to buckle my knees and I felt the liquid warmth spread through my nervous system as the lewd images of my virile son stole into my sex-starved brain. He gauged the far-away look in my brown eyes and wondered at my silent revery. So, to cover my erotic daydream, I just giggled and said that as a small girl, I could skip rope for hours at a time and even now, I could match his output and put him in his place. He merely smirked and handed me the rope as he settled back in a lounge chair.

We often engaged in little bets and dares, the loser having to wash the dishes or vacuum the carpet, so this seemed harmless enough. The winner in this category would receive a full-body massage from the vanquished. The snap-krackle-pop that my joints made as I rose from my perch, alerted me that I was in for a humiliating loss. My long dark hair was worn down so I wrestled it into a "scrungie" and tossed my sunglasses aside. My bright blue bikini allowed the warming rays of Ol' Sol to toast my curvaceous frame but wouldn't qualify as exercise gear, plus I was bare-footed, sporting only hot-pink gloss on my lips and nails. But I defiantly accepted the coiled line and with a sideways glance that was meant to be comically-intimidating, I swished the six feet of line over my shoulders and skipped to the beat of the accompanying radio.

Things progressed swimmingly for about thirty seconds, the soft grass felt good as I hopped on the balls of my feet and kept the spinning twine circulating at a steady pace. Then the sweating and jumping took its toll. My feet soon tired and I was hitting the ground flat-footed, sounding like an out-of-step Clydesdale. This was followed by the perspiration-saturated weight of my thick ponytail slapping me across the face with each clumsy step. And though my concentration was centered on maintaining my balance while dodging the wet mop of hair stinging my cheeks, my son's big brown eyes were nearly hypnotized by the bouncing, figure-eight pattern carved into the humid air by my crazily-animated breasts.

When I noticed that his stare was blatantly zeroed-in on my tits and I suddenly felt that the upheaval on my upper torso was causing a seismic disturbance, I couldn't help but to blush five different shades of red and halt my exuberant bounding. It took a while for my tits to stop shaking and the two minutes of vigorous thrusting in wet clothing had chafed my nipples so that they were boldly erect and embarrassingly on display. It was during this aborted cardio-activity that Robbie offered his biting commentary on my abundant bosom. "Mom," he suggested while stifling a smirking guffaw, "you may want to stop jumping around like that or those big tits of yours will cause you to lose an eye."

That's the one that did it. Over time there were many more remarks that

followed and they got intensely more obscene and incestuous, but I tried- like a good mom- to laugh them off or to make flimsy excuses for why he shouldn't speak to his mother like that. All that I accomplished by allowing his tiny, sexual improprieties, was to permit him the upper hand in our mother/son relation. It quickly followed that seemingly nothing was inappropriate and that I had offered him a virtual (as well as actual,) free hand to maul whichever parts of my anatomy interested him at the moment. i was just prone to making excuses and beginning to feel the sexual rush of obeying the commands of a visibly and mentally stronger partner. I couldn't realize it yet but the sexual dominance of his elevated position was aggressively coming at me.

I mentioned before, that I occasionally gave him a massage with a cooling alcohol-rub after some of his more grueling training routines. I remember one time that a particularly daunting workout had drained him and he slumped on a floor mattress, too sore and stiff to even move another step. He was sweating and breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath and the strained muscles tense and near cramping. I rushed to cool his brow with a wet cloth and an energy drink. His body glistened and the fine cords that defined his taut frame like a relief map, outlined every volatile muscle group. I wiped the watery layer of sweat from his heaving torso. I untied his boots and removed his socks, watching his eyes and cheeks for that instance when the struggling for air stopped and the slow, rhythmic intake of oxygen renewed his composure.

It was frightening to see a young man completely exhaust himself in his mission, almost to the point of dehydration and death. But there was something else in witnessing a majestic youth at the height of his powers, pour every ounce of his being into some goal that he wished to obtain. I felt that hunger in my loins again, just thinking about a man using the last measure of his energy to capture and dominate his female prey. And the nagging and crude fantasy of knowing that I was visualizing my own son- the product of my pussy- returning to that warm oven with his sturdy cock engorged and throbbing for assault. The ultimate combat.

His hands were taped and slightly swollen from hitting the speedbag and he was trying to loosen his shorts. I was kneeling beside him on the floor and didn't have much leverage. I yanked at his sweat-soaked trunks and told him to lift his hips, so I could slide the wet, clingy material down his thighs and dry his skin. It seemed so natural and mothering to help him, and though he was sweaty and exhausted, it was an arousing scent of masculine hormones and an enticing, upclose and hands-on exploration of a gallant, almost mythic combatant. I had seen his adult body naked before through the many rubdowns and physicals required through the sport, and though he would mostly be on his stomach or on his back with a towel over his genitals, this was my first memory of thinking sexually about his gorgeous body. I tugged the damp fabric with all of my might and nearly collapsed on top of him. His heavily-perspiring body held me up and the fragrance of his musky aroma filled my nose. His heavy-lidded eyes opened and he appeared to finally focus on me.

It was after I'd removed his trunks and dried his upper thighs that my thoughts turned to the erotic. He was grunting as I struggled with his clothing and the soggy tape binding his fists and ankles. When I ran the dry towels over his aching body and followed that with the alcohol-soaked ones to cool him off, his halting moans would normally subside. But this time, there was something noticeably different. I always placed a clean towel over his groin and slipped my hands underneath to dry his thighs, obviously there would be physical contact with his limp cock, but nothing remotely sensual.

I may have been lingering too long, my mind swirling in a daydream of libidinous fantasy. I was listening to the slow, labored, moaning of him gradually recovering from exhaustion and not-quite noticing the soothing, measured tone of intense, rising anticipation. Then I witnessed the blossoming mound rising beneath the light covering at his pelvis and stared in shock at the rigid spire pointing directly under my chin. It seemed so out of place that this phallic ghost should surface from such an innocent gesture. I glanced quizzically at his face for some form of reaction and was flabbergasted to see a "Cheshire-cat" grin on his satisfied countenance. He had spread his thighs apart, practically uncovering his dark, kinky curls and his towering column of flesh now wore the thin cloth atop its swollen crown like antique furniture in a vacant house, draped with old bedsheets.

My hands were still clumsily pawing at his warm, wet flesh when I quickly withdrew them, accidentally taking the curtaining fabric with them. And there it was. Seven vibrant inches of marbleized flesh pulsing with blue veins climbing the circumference like sexual vines, topped by a spongey, flared cap of erotic proportions shaped like a bullet and aiming it appears, to do just as much damage. Of the five thousand different actions that I could have taken, that I recalled later, my immediate response was to openly gape spellbound and drool maniacally. It had been years since I'd seen one angry, and it barely registered in my warped brain that this one belonged to my son.

Robbie was back to breathing normally if hauntingly, and I was the one now gasping for air. I could only rock slowly on my heels, frozen in fear of the huge, thick obelisk of obscene lewdness that I couldn't turn away from, nor could I shut it out by closing my eyes because the image was instantly seared in my brain. My body shuddered and a cold sweat trickled from my pores. My fingers twitched and I found that the simple act of breathing and swallowing became forced. It seemed like hours as my mind spotted every detail of his swarthy, swaying erection. The magnificent cylinder was built like a bowling pin, emerging solidly from a forest of black, tightly-coiled pubic hairs and reaching amazing proportions of girth and length. In the three seconds that I actually spent analyzing this fleshy phenomenon, I forged the absurdly crude opinion that this monster would rip me open or choke me to death. "What a thought for a mother to have?"

I was transfixed with an illicit fantasy of savoring that imposing hard-on while being transported to a place and time when surrendering your yearning body to the lustful impulses of a hungry aggressor would override the moralistic qualms of incest. This last lewd thought sprang me back to a guilt-riddled conscientiousness of openly coveting my son's cock and flagrantly flaunting my immoral desires directly infront of him. It was an unspoken admission of my shameful lack of control and he was smooth enough to lay a trap for me. "Do you see something you like, mom? " He sniggered perversely. "Go ahead, take it in your hand." He was almost laughing at me. This would be the biggest dare, yet.

I was shaking so hard that my loose clothes moved, sweat began to seep down my cleavage and to puddle under my arms. Another puddle of yet another creamy liquid was forming in my hungry cunt. Why didn't I run or scream or slap him...? I just stood there trembling. In a fog, I heard his lusty voice calling to me as if in a darkened tunnel and the words echoed in my head. I was still kneeling over him, his cock swaying like a Shaman's cobra, mere inches from my open mouth. "Was he talking to me, or were these voices in my head?" My misty brown eyes were following the dancing movements of this zipper-snake as if it could sink its fangs into me at any moment. "Did he want me to touch it or was I just overcome with a crude sexual hunger." My arm appeared to move with a will of its own. "Run!" The little voice in my head, screamed. But my quivering hand cautiously hovered over the helmeted head of his solid pillar.

"Go on," he coaxed me. "Why would you ever hold back if this is what you want?" I felt my palm open wide and my fingertips touched the warm, spongey cap of his flared shaft. I was more nervous than I'd been since I was a small girl, opening birthday presents and not knowing what to expect. "What do you want to do, mom?" I almost gripped it when the better angel on my shoulder prevailed. I seemed to awaken from my trance with his sticky secretions starting to moisten my palm, and I pulled my hand away like I had touched a hot stove. As if wanting to remove the intruding offender from my sight, I just swatted his thick pole with my open palm and watched as it harmlessly rebounded to its original position, as I leaned back in awe. This is when I should have run. I could see that I was no match for his wily ways.

But like an experienced boxer parrying a glancing blow, he swiftly grasped my wrist and pulled me closer. With my hand in his grip, he piloted me towards his massive tool and my small hand took his solid column in my grasp. My energy to resist was failing and my fascination with this corrupt interlude drew me like a moth to a flame. I was weak and he preyed on my obedience. "How could I be so helpless in my own defense when I could plainly see the degradation ahead of me?" His plan was to use my body for his sexual pleasure and I was beginning to realize that this crude, incestuous dynamic made me hot, why would I even want to fight it?

The trail of his gooey semen oozed down the trunk of his cock and my palm, lubed with his viscous fluid, slid up and down the firm shaft. I didn't even realize that he had loosened his grip and had both hands behind his head, enjoying the oddly erotic sight of watching his muddled mom masturbate his potent prick. When he mumbled something about me being ready, I jumped in alarm. Finally seeing the illicit incestuous escapade for what it was. I knew that I couldn't fight him, so I chose to dash, hoping to outrun him. I don't remember that we talked about that incident again. But it only prolonged the inevitable.

Alone, in my room or at times when he was out of the house, I made excuses for this repugnant behavior, (on behalf of the both of us.) "He simply took our little game of 'dares' a bit too far." I considered. And while I often massaged his damaged muscles and aching limbs, I was certainly aware of the proximity to his uncovered organ. "It's only that as a single mom, I've spent way too many nights by myself and the natural reaction to a sexual situation, even incestual, is a rapid heartbeat and protruding nipples... Robbie's a young man who automatically gets erections whenever a female comes close and rubbing his thighs or slathering oils on his exposed skin..." I could always find reasons for why I should allow these perversions to continue.

There was the time that after joining him on training runs for a few weeks, we were relaxing by the pool. I was wearing a short skirt with bare legs and sandals, sitting nonchalantly with my ankles crossed when he looked over the rim of the book that he was reading and commented on the new muscle tone in my thighs and calves. Coming from someone who was so fit and also my son, I beamed with pride. He asked me to stand and balance on my toes so that he could gauge the new definition to my legs and remarked how sexy "those gams would look in heels or slinky stockings." For some unknown (or subconscious) reason, it immediately got my mind turning to the fancy shoe store down the street, and how he would react to seeing me in a pair of four-inch, "fuck-me" pumps, or sexy mesh hosiery in a slit-thighed skirt.

Doffing my shoes and pointing my toes in his direction, I let him examine the shiny new coat of ruby-red polish on my nails and the tinkling gold anklet that he presented me for the past Christmas. A salacious smile curled my lips and the absurd fantasy of pole-dancing for money, sparked my imagination. I approached his chair in a coquettish way, enhancing my prancing approach with sultry, stylish swaying from the hips and a flirtatious lifting of my skirt hem. Then I twirled on the balls of my bare feet and bent a little at the waist to permit him a long, teasing, look up the length of my legs and almost to the pink panties that were warily guarding my beguiling pussy from going one step farther.