I woke up and glanced at the bedside clock; 2-35 am. Thank God it was Saturday tomorrow and I could lie in a bit longer.
I felt thirsty, so reluctantly I got out of bed and going to the underwear drawer I got out a pair of jockey shorts and pulled them on. I always slept naked and the shorts were a precaution against someone seeing me nude, though God knows why I bothered since there was only mother in the place apart from me, and she would be asleep.
I left the bedroom and padded quietly down the passageway to the kitchen, took a drink of water and started to go back to my bedroom.
I hadn't noticed it when I'd left the bedroom because the computer room was in the other direction from the kitchen, but on my return I noticed that the computer room door was just a crack open and there was a bluish light showing.
"Blast," I thought, "I must have left the damned computer on."
Then I thought I distinctly remembered turning it off, but no matter, it was on now so....
I pushed the door open and stepped into the room and stood stock still. Mother was sitting in front of the computer staring intently at the screen. I'd come in quietly and she hadn't heard me, but she did hear my startled intake of breath when I saw what she was looking at.
She gasped and swung the swivel desk chair round so that she faced me.
There was a moment of silence as we stared at each other and I don't know who was the most startled and embarrassed. On mother's side it was being caught looking at an erotic site; on my side it was knowing how she'd come to be looking at it.
It happened to be one of the sites I often looked at and I'd got it set as a favourite. Mother must have been casually hunting around and come across it.
Mother was the first to speak.
"I...I couldn't sleep so I was...was just playing around with the...I found...it's one of your favourites isn't it?"
There was no point in lying since it was obviously set as one of my favourites, so somewhat red faced I said "Yes."
"You look at this sort of thing often?"
"Oh no, not often," I replied, thinking that it would all depend on how you defined "often."
I waited for her to berate me, telling me I was a lecher, filthy minded, or something like that. What she said shook me somewhat.
She swung the chair round again so that she was facing the screen and said, "It is rather beautiful, isn't it?"
"You...you think so?"
"You seem surprised. I took it that since you've got it as one of your favourites you'd think it was beautiful; or is it just the sex that interests you?"
"Well, no, not just the sex it's...it's..."
"Rather moving isn't? They may of course be just models and not mother and son, but they certainly convey a sense of love and not just raw lust."
What she'd been looking at was a series of four pictures of a woman who appeared to be in her mid thirties and a young man or should I say boy, who looked about eighteen or nineteen.
Well, there's no point in beating about the bush. The pictures were part of a mother and son incest site, and from the first time I'd seen them I'd been captivated. Much of the material on this and other incest sites promoted themselves as being nasty and having sexy slut mothers being fucked by horny sons and so on.
These pictures were different. Whether the couple were genuinely mother and son there was no way of knowing, but the pictures portrayed what seemed to be a tender, loving relationship with a hint of shyness.
In the first picture the mother was sitting and the boy was standing in front of her. The boy was naked and his penis was level with her face and his hand was touching one of her breasts.
The mother was not completely nude in the first picture. She was naked down to the waist, and at her waist was what I took to be a nightdress that had been pulled down.
It had been the woman's attitude that had first appealed to me. She was not the world's most beautiful woman -- whatever that means -- she was in fact very slender. In none of the pictures could I get any clear idea of how tall she was.
Blonde hair hung in a single plait over one shoulder; her brow smooth and serene, almost like a child's, and child-like too was her slightly tilted nose above full, finely defined lips; sensual yet at the same time grave and sensitive. Between narrow lids her green eyes had a brooding look about them.
Her breasts were not large and dropped down a little, but with well defined forward pointing nipples.
One of her features that often drew my attention was her long thighs that gave promise of a powerful grasp round the boy -- this was portrayed in the last picture of the series.
Yet for me there was something more than this. What she was sitting on could not be properly seen; certainly it was backless, and as she sat her head was turned slightly away from the young man and his penis that was so close to her face.
On her face was a look of tenderness combined with what I interpreted as shyness. This for me was more alluring than all the more blatant and coarse pictures. I longed to be the young man in the picture, to be there to enjoy this woman with her touch of reserve, or was it modesty?
The next picture in the series showed the woman holding the young man's penis with her hand while her lips closed over its head. Next he was kneeling before her, his head between her widely parted legs and her hands behind his head.
The last picture showed them on a couch or divan, the boy on top of her, her legs wrapped round him.
In a sense it was all very frustrating. I wanted to know how they came to be together like that in the first place; who said what to whom to bring about this scene of loving sexual encounter, and what went on between the successive pictures.
I used to sit there looking at them and imagining the circumstances, trying to fill in the gaps.
I envied the boy - the son if that is what he really was. I longed to be there with that sensitive looking woman; to kiss her, touch her breasts; to taste and smell her sex organ; to feel her lips over my penis and to shoot my sperm into her warm, moist tunnel of love; to hear her cry out as she climaxed, and afterwards lie with her in my arms.
Often I sat looking at those pictures, and if I thought there was no danger of being discovered I would masturbate.
I thought mother would be disgusted that her son looked at such things; that she thought the pictures beautiful was a surprise despite the fact that her opinion coincided with mine regarding the beauty of the scene.
"You...you really think they're beautiful?" I asked
She turned back to the screen saying, "Yes...yes I do; I can understand why you've got them as one of your favourites. She's...she's...I don't know...not beautiful, not even obviously sexy, but somehow appealing. And the boy...well...he's...he's really quite a hunk isn't he?"
I must admit I'd never been particularly interested in the boy apart from feeling envious.
Mother gazed at the pictures for a bit longer then said very quietly, "He looks a little like you, don't you think?"
I had never expected mother to find my little fantasy world, but she had and I was somewhat relieved that she hadn't been shocked. The trouble was, she was now taking things in a direction I didn't want them to go.
"Yes...yes, I suppose he does resemble me just a bit," I said, hoping that mother wouldn't take the next step.
She did take it. "Darling, the woman...don't you think she...she looks a bit like me?"
That was it and I'd better tell all. You see, the fantasy I had about those pictures was only a substitute for another fantasy I had about a flesh and blood woman. The fantasy I had for the real woman was almost unbearable because it could never become reality and so fantasising over the pictures was safe. They served as a sort of safety valve for my -- well, to put it in Freudian terms - the raging passions of my Id.
"Don't let her ask...please don't let her ask," I silently implored a deity that I rarely communicated with.
Perhaps it was this lack of communication with the deity that brought the punishment down on me.
"Terence," mother asked gravely -- she always called me Terence when she had something serious to say to me -- "do you look at these pictures because the boy and woman resemble you and me?"
I tried to evade a direct answer.
"Oh, I don't think they really look like you and me."
There was no escape.
"Yes, they do, and I think you know they do."
"Well, perhaps a little, but that isn't why I..."
"Don't Terry," ("Terry," that was better), "don't tell me that isn't why you look at them, because I won't believe you; I think that's exactly why you look at them. I've wanted to get this out in front of us for some time but I've never known how; these pictures have given me the opportunity."
"Have they...I don't unders..."
"Yes you do Terence; you understand very well and so do I, so do you tell me, or do I tell you?"
I stood silent as she sat looking up at me intently.
Mother let it hang for a minute or so and then said, "All right Terry, you won't say it so I will. For a long time now you've had a thing for me, haven't you?"
Prevaricating I stuttered, "A...a thing?"
Mother was looking at me keenly, those all seeing emerald eyes boring into me.
"Don't play dumb with me Terence, you know what I mean; if I must spell it out, you fancy me sexually."
I couldn't look at her as I said, "Yes, I do, but..."
"And these pictures have been a substitute for the sort of relationship you'd like to have with me, haven't they?"
"Yes, but I'd never have tried to...you know...with you..."
"So you prefer the substitute for the real thing?"
"Yes...no...yes...I mean, I can't have the real...you..."
I dimly realised we were at a turning point in our relationship. Whatever was said now was sure to define our future together, if there was to be any future together.
"Mother, I'm sorry, I didn't want to have...those sorts of feelings for you but..."
She suddenly smiled; "So you're sorry you've got those sorts of feelings for me; why, are they so unpleasant?"
"No...no, of course not; it's just that...well...I thought if you knew about them you'd be horrified; you'd think I was perverted."
"Well I do know about them now, and I'm not horrified and I don't think you're perverted."
"You don't?"
"Terry, you're being deliberately obtuse. You're supposed by a smart uni student you must know that...well if you haven't read about it I have. Mothers and son often have sexual feelings about each other."
"Do they?" I asked, trying to sound ingenuous. I'd read about that too but wasn't going to admit it, and in any case I knew from my own experience that sons -- or this son at least -- had sexual feelings about their mothers.
"Of course they do, why else are mother and son incest sites so popular?" mother said decisively. You only have to look at these pictures to see..."
"Yes, but are they really mother and son?" I interrupted.
"That's a point," she said, "but even if they aren't really mother and son it goes to show..."
I interrupted again, trying to change the direction of the talk.
"You know, I've often tried to fill in the interstices between the pictures."
