Why Should I Leave Home

This is going to be one of my longer stories because it's not just a fuck-up story, it's a sordid story of lust, love and incest that takes time to brew and develop. So please bear with me and enjoy the slow build-up as my Mum and I become more than just relatives. The story will be in two parts and both halves will run to about seven pages.

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It's always a child's duty to look after their parents isn't it? We're the ones full of energy while they slowly age and decline – and so it was that I'd been enlisted to help Mum to look after my Dad. Well, I wasn't so much as enlisted as brought up to help really. Poor old Dad, he'd had a hard life...

Mum had married him on her 20th birthday, smitten presumably by his good looks but not all that long after they married he'd had a nasty accident. A ladder slipped from beneath him, dropping him and a pot of paint to the concrete path below. The ambulance men took him away quickly afterwards but the paint splash remained as a vivid reminder of the moment for many a year thereafter. Mum was already carrying me by then and somehow held onto her baby-to-be despite the trauma but Dad wasn't so lucky with his health. His wounds recovered well enough but although he was repaired on the outside, parts of him inside were irrevocably damaged and soon they began to impact on his health. Unable to work and then housebound he began to slip downhill and had been little more than a burden to Mum for the past fifteen years or more.

As I said, she'd married at 20 but Dad on the other hand was already 40 so it was not quite a May to September relationship but almost so, but instead of an active romance Mum found herself being a nurse to care for her partner and as his health declined it took away all the pleasures of a loving, vigorous and happy future.

To add to her assorted trauma, Mum also lost both her parents during that period, victims of a road traffic accident – the one beneficial thing to come from that event was that her parents, who'd survived bombings during the War but not a modern-day catastrophe, left her a handy legacy which Mum and Dad used to buy their house outright, so the roof over our heads was relatively secure and at least Mum only needed some part-time income to keep the household going once Dad became unable to work. Sheer determination and lots of hard work kept the boat afloat somehow and once I reached my teens even the small amount of money I earned from a paper round was added to the family funds too.

But thanks to Mum's dedication I never felt aggrieved about that because somehow she had enough love to share with me to override any such feelings and in those early years I used to feel for Mum too. Nevertheless it did annoy me at times because instead of sharing my growing-up years with my parents I saw little of my Dad and Mum often had to leave me on my own as she ministered to his needs. I suppose though, that in my youth I was generally unable to see the pain that both she and dad suffered – mental pain with Mum and physical pain with Dad even though I was aware of her efforts.

Mum worked so hard to help Dad and yet her marriage was a farce. It may have been built on love but they had little time for the pleasures of the flesh and instead she was forced to concentrate on her husband's health issues. Instead of sharing a bed with him she had to be pushed aside as he spent much of his time becoming evermore reliant on help and painkillers, regressing from a chair to a wheelchair, then needing helping breaths of oxygen too, not to mention his own special bed.

He even needed a special diet along with the endless medication just to add to Mum's work load, but she managed without complaining – at least not to me.

I did what I could to help – doing shopping either on my own or occasionally with Mum; getting Dad ready at night and so many little things that had to be done constantly. All through my school years it went on and it was only because I promised my parents that I'd really try that I graduated successfully, my home studies often being interrupted by Mum needing my help in some way or other.

And then as I moved on to college in my 18th year I found myself some relief from the drudgery in the form of a really delicious girlfriend and she helped me through many a rough night when helping and studying become too much together. Quickly we discovered sex and then, after our initial shyness we lost our virginities and almost equally quickly we became addicted to the sexual excitement, but even though she was willing, I just couldn't be 'hers' – my allegiance was to my Mother and our friendship eventually floundered.

Sure, we enjoyed some great times together and even began to make plans for our future but as Dad's health continued downhill, so too did our togetherness falter. Perhaps if I'd had my own place instead of living with my parents; perhaps if we'd had a peaceful and private bedroom in which to romp and if there hadn't always been the risk of my parents disturbing us then things might have been very different.

I don't really blame her – in a way I blamed Dad but it wasn't his fault...he couldn't help it if his health interrupted our love life and peace but I took it out on him in my mind.

"Stupid clumsy old git," I muttered one evening after I'd spent several hours helping Mum with his health-care equipment, "I'd have my own place by now if it wasn't for you."

I wanted to throw things around but I curbed my temper if only because I didn't want to upset Mum. Her life was upset far more than mine but she didn't complain.

Then out of the blue Dad contracted a serious chest infection; suddenly he was on constant medication; suddenly he needed oxygen all the time; suddenly our work load seemed to double.

As his interest in life faltered and faded, armies of end-of-life carers began calling, doctors too – and then came the final straw as they told us that nothing more could be done and that we should prepare for his end.

Thank heavens it came quickly – one day he rallied – the next day he was gone, just like that...to leave Mum and me sobbing with sadness and relief.

But his passing meant one more problem – Mum was on her own now, entirely bereft of his financial help, such as it had been. And although she was free of his constant needs she was missing a partner too – a woman in her forties is too young to be a lonely widow.

And so here we were a few years later; it was around 2008 actually – Mum at just 42 and me at a mere 21 – Mum with no partner, job or proper income and me just finding my feet in the world of industry and commerce. Life was going to remain a struggle, at least for a while.

At least I'd managed to finish college and somehow passed my final exams and had just found my first job, but that merely meant that my own life was even more upside-down and full of chaos too and for a while I was in no condition to be of much help.

Inside me something kept telling me to get away, to set up my own home now I was a man but each time I began to scan the property pages, my heart began pulling me back home. I was in at least two minds all the time and really struggling to grow up but there was only one real option. Mum needed me now more than ever and despite my desire to step out on my own, I simply had to be there for her.

And so the story begins...

Mum's name is Pauline although I never called her by her name but I noticed that whereas once she used to tell people that it was Pauline, in more recent years and after Dad had died she'd tell them it was Paula and I don't blame her. Pauline was so 1950's, she said – whereas Paula sounded much more modern.

"I don't really mind what you call me so long as it's not rude," I remember her saying to me, "I do like it when you to call me 'Mum' – well, I am your Mum anyway so that's what you should call me. I won't complain if you call me Paula but please don't call me Pauline – that's so formal and out-of-date."

Paula sounded more seductive and softer too – not that I was even considering any form of seduction at that time but even so, deep inside me there was already a lust. A lust for her lovely breasts; my waking dream. Heck, I'd never seen them in their entirety. I'd obviously seen them exposed to various degrees and had even caught a hint of nipples when I found her dressing one day but nevertheless, in my mind I'd seen them entirely unfettered and hanging free. They were a powerful and delicious pair of delectable aids to my dirty dreams.

As I jerked my cock to powerful eruptions in the privacy of my room I'd imagine those breasts enclosing my cock – they were without a doubt the most desirable tits I'd ever seen on a woman in real life. They became part of my fantasies each night – her generous mammaries often finding their imaginary selves attached to my mouth or around my thrusting spurting cock.

But my fantasies didn't stop there; once my arousal was complete I wanted her body; I wanted her to be there for me, to suck me into her cupid's mouth, to let me hold and use her maternal breasts and to let me fill her perfect pussy. Inside me, in crude recesses of my mind I desired her more than anything, mother or not.

Mum, Paula, is a touch over five feet four inches in height and while I never asked her what her weight was (in the same way you don't ask a woman her age) she wasn't skinny; she was a more traditional shape, with a proud bust, a distinct waist and generous hips.

Mum's accent wasn't on her arse as a woman's shape seems to be nowadays, instead it was on her bust and even more so on her pretty face which she managed to keep looking immaculate despite all else. Good genes were the answer because she never needed to use much make-up...and she certainly never wore a corset!

Mum was always proud of her bust – not as in pushing her tits in your face but she looked after her figure and made sure she wore bras that fitted properly – I know that because of all the time I spent waiting for her in shops as she tried on new underwear. In those early days I didn't appreciate her tits as sexual things but later on, as they became part of my fetish, I came to know the size of those breasts so well – she was a succulent 36C.

Oh – I ought to mention her legs while I'm at it, which perhaps thanks to all the running around she had to do were a delight to lust over even though the heart of my attention was higher up. They were slender yet shapely, they always reminded me of an air hostess's legs somehow. I know that she wore stocking from time to time but they were merely for adornment and were usually quickly discarded once she was home. That reminds me too of the many times she'd let me watch her putting on or removing her stockings, my young eyes full of her creamy thighs and flashes of knickers – the sight always enough to stir my arousal; enough to send me to seek out a quiet place so I could beat off.

She kept her stockings in a special drawer lined with soft tissue, so they wouldn't get snagged, she told me. It was a private yet wonderful drawer that secretly drew me to it so I could absorb the essence of the scented contents, scented by both her body and a splash of eau de toilette. Delicious memories that I'll never forget.

I guess I hardly need to tell you who I am – I'm Chris as I'm sure you well know by now.

At the age of 21 – at the time this story begins properly – I was a tad over six feet tall and about as healthy as nature allowed me to be without doing work-outs and such.

Helping to lift Dad up and down, keeping active generally and not over-eating – hardly having time to eat at all sometimes it seemed, all kept me pretty fit to be honest. Mum believed in healthy eating and she had a small if productive garden; a place to escape the drudgery of nursing no doubt. I often used to help her and between us we reared many a nice crop of vegetables and fruit all of which aided my general wellbeing, I guess.

I was in the habit of keeping my hair quite short, if only so that I didn't waste time preening myself. A quick rub over and a brief smoothing down and my hair was ready for the day ahead.

I seldom drank alcohol although once in a while I'd let things go a bit when I might knock back a few lagers by way of relief and relaxation, but I never smoked or did drugs (and I still don't) and by and large I was a fine upstanding healthy guy – all complete with a solid seven and a half inch extension to my body of which I was rightly proud.

And that seven-and-a-bit inch-long piece of meat loved several things; porn, attention and dreams of sexy tits being squashed around it. Top of the list of desirable breasts were Mum's unobtainable ones; the ones I dreamt about, the ones I knew were entirely out of bounds – and yet the ones that my eyes would lock onto whenever possible, the ones that always caused the most uncontrollable urges to flow into my penis.

Speaking of my penis, my longest-time girlfriend; the only one I really fell for, was shocked when she encountered my penis the first time we tried to enjoy some sex. No, not shocked because of its size or anything but because of what happened, something I still blush about whenever I think back.

We were both virgins when we met and although we were both eager to explore sex, our natural reticence kept us dithering for ages until one day I was permitted to expose my erect penis and she managed to look at it and then touch it without screaming! A few days later and it was her turn to expose herself and my turn to touch her. Then suddenly we progressed in a big rush, finding ourselves on our own, at home alone for a few hours and just too excited to stop. But instead of enjoying a thrilling first fuck it nearly came to a sudden halt and almost ended in embarrassment!

Why?

Because all the exposure was too much for my hair-triggered cock and I just started erupting before we did anything so that my first orgasm in her presence was a complete accident.

Thank heavens that she remained unfazed and I remained hard because the lust was still there and we finally managed to consummate our love a few minutes later.

Mum had taken Dad to a care facility for the afternoon and we had the house to ourselves. Knowing that we'd be alone, we'd kind of agreed that today would be "the day" and as soon as we were on our own we were at it, kissing and cuddling amorously as we built our excitement. Before long we were undressing with unseemly haste and were now both kneeling on my bed, our outer garments discarded around the room.

And now I was allowed, with trembling fingers, to push her cute frilly knickers down her legs, sliding them over her smooth hips and her sweet swelling arse; then she'd knelt upright watch as I removed my underpants. We knelt there for a few moments as I absorbed the sight of her curled and springy golden pubes and while she gawped at my cock, then almost suddenly, in a haze of lust we flung ourselves together, my erection pressing hard against her wonderful pussy for the first time ever – and I just blew off on the spot!

She learned a lot about the clingy pervasive nature of spunk in those few seconds!

I've learnt to control myself a bit since then and as it happened it didn't really spoil things because, as I said, I was rock hard again inside a few minutes!

Mind you we ended up with a whole assortment of sticky and discarded underwear that day because neither of us had really planned for the mess of making love; of blood, sweat and cum!

But once we'd overcome our general overexcitement about our bodies we soon learned how to fuck, to make love, to have sex and it became incredible fun; the pleasures of rolling on a bed with a girl being something so new and so exciting to me that I'd get hard just at the mention of the word 'bed'. But then just as things were getting good, so my world crashed about me as the toll of attending to Dad took precedence; as I had to let her down one too many times.

I can still dream delightfully as I remember those sex-filled afternoons and evenings though – few that they may have been...

But life had to go on and now it was just Mum and me – two lonely deflated souls together with no plans at all. All we could think to do was to keep enough money in the kitty to pay the bills and to both kind of loiter around, both of us bored now having no chores or nursing duties to perform. Sure, I still had to work which gave me an escape route but each evening when I returned home, the gloom descended on us again.

Before long all of Dad's special nursing care equipment was removed and the bedroom returned to being a proper bedroom and even though I suggested some kind of a shrine to Dad's memory Mum turned it down.

"No darling, he wore me out," she said, "I don't want to spend the rest of my life thinking about him, thank you."

Our life was empty right now – we really needed to get out of our rut somehow.

Mum did find herself a bit of work locally but it wasn't much, and then one day my escape ladder began to take shape as my boss put me in charge of the entire sales department and gave me the position of Executive Sales Manager Designate.

The title alone was posh enough but with my new position also came a considerable rise in salary and suddenly the sun was shining again.

Ok – my promotion was thrust upon my boss when his existing sales manager found himself another job and left suddenly, but he took pains to assure me.

"You can do it," he said with more confidence than I had, "In fact I'm relying on you."

What he meant was that it was up to me to succeed – or fail.

Shit – that was brave of him but it made me feel strong – and if he said I could do it then I wasn't going to let him down. The alternative was probably to be ignored for ever after...or face the sack, so I worked really hard to make a success of things and somehow success bred more success. Soon the whole department was buzzing; soon we were breaking new ground and sales were going up and up and the boss was glowing and so was I, especially when he confirmed my appointment.

Pay rise quickly followed pay rise; I even found myself with a company car for the first time ever. As manager I now had many more responsibilities but my growing prosperity helped our life to slowly become a little less boring; helped us climb out of that rut. Mum and I were able to go out for the occasional meal and to buy small luxuries for the home and for ourselves. With the car we travelled; not to far off places but we explored around us, discovering some delightful beaches and hills and other peaceful places but while all this was happening, something inside me was telling me that things weren't right – I should be out there with my partner, my girlfriend, my wife perhaps, rather than with my mother. I should be free of the apron strings by now, setting up my own nest, building my own future life of independence.

Inevitably found myself ogling every pretty female I saw, lusting after her, torn between leaping up and proposing to her and the other option – of staying true to my Mum.

Perhaps expecting great things I went to a class reunion one weekend – only to find that almost without exception, all my classmates and especially those females I'd fancied were now settled down and were raising families. The remaining girls generally seemed to have turned fat and unattractive and those few past male friends of mine who weren't settled were now raising hell with the authorities instead – unattached guys flaunting their masculinity and risking both their necks and their freedom.

I returned from the reunion feeling deflated in some ways and yet bucked up in others. Here was me, still living at home and looking after my Mum but now I realised that she looked a whole lot better than most of my old female acquaintances did. Suddenly I actually felt proud of my Mum's beauty but I realised too that my view was only an observation and perhaps a biased one at that. And there was the other thought that kept arising – at home I wasn't getting any sex; I didn't even have my own place wherein I could play with my ever-eager instrument in total peace.