Right, okay, so here's My Valentine's Day Contest entry. I hate to begin with an apology, but time, geography, other writing commitments, lack of electricity, too many Chang beers and, of course, laziness on my part means that I had to sprint for the line with this one. I hope the result isn't too appalling or disappointing, but I did want to get this in for the competition.
Okay, it's an incest piece. The young man has a folder on the shared computer just chock full of incest video clips. His mother finds it and is, at first, shocked. But she can't keep away and goes back to look at the stuff her son has squirrelled away. Then she finds a draft of a Valentine's Day scene penned by her son (which is the prologue to this piece).
It goes on from there.
Due to the time concern, and I only have a couple of hours left to get this re-read and submitted, there will undoubtedly be errors in the text. I'm sorry, I apologise wholeheartedly, however I also hope that you enjoy the piece.
I'd best get on with it.
Thanks for reading.
GA -- Ranong, Thailand -- 5th February 2014.
Prologue
She surprises me with the candles and the tablecloth, the red wine and music. I tell her so, but she just looks at me and smirks. Then I notice the close-fitting tee and how it's moulded to her high, tight tits. Then the mini skirt and high heels catch my attention. She looks good; in fact, my mother looks
very
good. So I tell her that as well.
"I'm glad you approve," she says back to me, and I get the sense she's teasing. "There's just you and me now," my mother replies when I ask why we're having a dinner like this. It's Valentine's Day, it's meant to be about love and romance. It isn't a time for mother and son. "I haven't got anyone else to spend Valentine's evening with," she adds. "So I thought we'd make it a special dinner anyway. Just the two of us."
There's a look in her eye and a catch in her voice that makes my cock hard. I remind myself this is my mother, but her legs and the fact she isn't wearing a bra beneath the tee turns me on.
"You don't mind?" she asks me. "It isn't ... weird, is it?"
I actually think it's a bit strange, but of course I don't say that. There's something going on that I can't put my finger on -- It's in the way she's dressed, the way she looks at me, and although the idea is there at the back of my mind, I daren't think about it too hard. It's as though actually allowing myself to study the question will make it melt away like an ice-cube on a hot day.
"I don't mind, mum," I reply, shrugging one shoulder as I pull a face. "It isn't as though I've got a girlfriend and have to rush out."
And then she just says it. The words come out of her and I'm staring.
"I could be your girlfriend."
She's right up close; my mother is standing there while I sit like a stone on one of the chairs at the revamped and romantically decorative kitchen table. Then she turns, her backside to me, with her thighs so close all I have to do is reach out a hand and...
But I'm too shocked to do a thing. So stunned I can't move. Even breathing is suddenly difficult, a conscious effort.
"Would you like that, Carl?" she asks.
Her voice is low and husky, really sexy, and hearing my mother say that to me makes my cock go stiff. I have that funny tickle in the pit of my stomach. I'm all pumped up and horny, just like when I watch those video clips and tug my dick.
I'm so fucking randy sitting there with my mother's fantastic legs so close, but all I can mutter in reply is an inarticulate, "Uh--"
I want to tell my mother that I'd love it if she was my girlfriend. She doesn't know it, but I've been looking at incest porn and having a really good time. I've thought about my mother as I've wanked, imagining her all naked and sexy with me. Of course, all that is just a fantasy, I never thought she'd ever go for it if I made a move.
My mother laughs and then slowly lifts her skirt.
"Mum," I groan when I see her round and very taut bottom. And what makes it even better is she's not wearing any underwear.
"For God's sake," she hisses at me as she looks back over one shoulder. "Touch me. Feel my legs and tell me how touching me makes you feel."
Oh but her legs feel good. I'm stroking my mother's thighs and can't believe how smooth her skin is beneath my fingers. She purrs, actually purrs as she shuffles her feet and basically invites me to slide my hand right up to her pussy.
My mother moans and her head falls loose when I stir two fingers around the folds of her labia. "Yes," she mutters, more a comment to herself, as though it's 'mission accomplished'. "Put a finger inside me," she sighs. "Rub my clit, darling. Feel me. Feel mummy's cunt."
Dinner is forgotten when I feel the slippery folds of my mother's sex.
I'm on my feet and I'm kissing her. The trigger was her sighing out that obscenity. My mother devours those kisses, with her tongue in my mouth and her tee-shirt hiked up to show off round tits and pebble-sized nipples. She's as horny as I am, and her pussy is soaking, squelching as my fingers work at her.
Then we're in the living room. She's tumbled back onto the three-seater sofa and I'm standing in front of her. I look down while she rearranges herself, skirt up around her waist, tee-shirt pulled up over her boobs. I take stock, the realisation hitting me a hammer blow that this is my own mother.
I love the way her long black hair is piled up all messy on top of her head. Some strands have come loose and whisper against her temples as she looks up at me with huge green eyes, her red-painted mouth grinning at me. I've always thought my mother is pretty -- she's slim and toned, especially since she hit the gym and started to eat healthily after a messy time when my father did one a few years ago. Mum went off the rails, as they say, when dad did her over and buggered off with a young woman from work. But she got herself on track, built up her business, and now we're doing all right. She has men after her. I've seen them looking, but other than a couple of dickhead boyfriends she hasn't bothered much with men at all in recent months, probably a year or two now I come to think about it.
Anyway, my mum is a looker with a lovely figure, and yeah, I'll admit to wanking off while thinking about her. That's how I got into the incest porn anyway. I've tugged my dick and imagined fucking my mum, using the gutter-mouthed models in proxy.
I just never imagined it would ever become reality.
"I'm going to suck your cock," my mother murmurs. She reaches out for my belt, the buckle chinking as her fingers work at the fastening. The button comes loose and the zip goes down and then my mother hauls jeans and boxers to my knees. "Oh," she says when she sees me rock hard and ready. "What a lovely cock," she adds. "So big and stiff."
I can't help it, but when she uses a hand on my length and then wraps those scarlet lips around my cock-head the stuff just squirts out of me. I groan and gasp and try to tell her but it's happening before I can blurt a warning.
The force of that first jet makes my mother gag and cough, and my cock falls out of her mouth as it continues to spit jizm everywhere. Before I know it my mother's pretty face is spoiled by thick spunk clinging to her cheek, with more of the stuff laying across the bridge of her nose, a glistening rope in her hair. Her tee-shirt is spattered too, stained with ejaculate.
"Bloody hell!" my mother yelps when it all starts. But she recovers quickly, laughing as she wipes at the mess on her cheek with the back of a hand.
Then she takes hold of my cock again, muttering about how hard it still is as she fists the length of it. Next, while keeping her eyes locked on mine throughout, she tells me to stand up, then squats and takes my cock between her lips again. Her mouth makes popping sounds, like the cork from a champagne bottle as she sucks at the big domed end of my dick. She seems to really enjoy teasing me with her eyes while she does that, her cheeks going concave before -- pop! -- and her tongue swirls around the gloopy mess leaking out of me.
"Is it going to stay hard?" she asks, rising to her feet, a hand still working my stiffness.
I know from experience watching incest porn that I'll stay hard, that it won't be a problem. Not a problem at all. "Yes, mum," I say.
She smiles at me and then leans in to kiss my mouth. "Goody," she replies, whispering. "Then let's go up to bed, my
bed," she adds pointedly. "Make this a Valentine's to remember."
One
IT TOOK Louise Cross more than a few seconds before her brain accepted what her eyes were seeing. She stared at the screen, the word was right there beneath the folder icon. Her emotions were in tumult because of it. One hand cupped the mouse, the feel of the hard plastic shell beneath her fingers penetrating the fugue to remind her of where she was and what she had been doing. She was at the computer and had been about to attack invoices which had built up, the chore a pressing necessity.
But then she'd found it.
Louise saw the pointer slide across the screen until it lay directly over the folder; her forefinger rose. All it would take was a click of the mouse.
She sat there, poised on the brink for a few moments before she released the mouse and pushed away from the desk with both hands. The casters rolled easily across the carpet until the chair came to a halt a yard away. She rose to a half-crouch, her buttocks hovering inches above the seat, with Louise's attention on the computer screen, held there by the folder icon and its shocking label.
"Shit," she muttered, collapsing back onto the seat before she scooted forward.
Louise knew she would have to look. Despite being appalled by the potential she couldn't let it lie, nosiness had always been a forte of hers.
The mouse was in her palm once more. It rolled easily over the mat, the pointer on the screen following remotely along in a smooth arc until the arrow lay over the folder once more.
Louise sighed and swore again. But, inexorably, her finger pressed down in a double click on the mouse, and the two-point-five gig of information was available to her. She saw the familiar blue W of Word documents mixed in with an unfamiliar icon that looked to her like a traffic cone, orange with two white horizontal stripes. Then, when she registered some of the titles affixed to the documents and traffic cones, Louise gasped. "Oh my God," she muttered, eyes wide, jaw hanging slack.
The mouse pointer described several jerky circles while Louise scrolled through the contents of the folder. She picked one at random, one of the traffic cones, her finger working before her conscious mind realised her intent.
There was a pause of several beats while the computer responded to the command, and then a video screen opened up in front of Louise. She stared with appalled fascination as a woman of indeterminate middle age -- early-to-mid forties Louise registered dimly, perhaps a little older -- opened a door and peered round at a much younger man lying on a bed.
Breakfast
