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Me and my son

Me and my son

By: saran


T hasn’t bothered me for some time now. It used too. Perhaps many or even most of you will think that it should. But the fact is, at this stage in my life, my relationship with my son chandhu is to us, the most natural, the most beautiful, the most pure coupling imaginable. We are both secure in the strength of our love both filial and physical.

We first consummated our love as male and female when he was but eighteen. Perhaps at that tender age, there was unfairness in the division of power between us. What boy of seventeen could truly resist the charms of an attractive woman even those of his mother? What boy could exercise true free-will when confronted with the beauty of his mother unabashedly desiring him to be inside her?

This no longer concerns me. Years later, my son is now certainly of an age where his decisions are truly his own. A breathtakingly handsome man, he’s had the opportunity to sample other women, exquisite women.

But always, he has returned to me. He has returned to his mother.

How did our relationship turn from a normal, loving, nurturing relationship between mother and son to the animalistic, passionate romance that we now enjoy? When did that first spark of sensuality burn between us? It is difficult to say but what follows will be an attempt to portray to you the reader a sense of the love, the passion, and the depth of our bond. When my son chandhu is inside me, nothing else matters in this world. I shall try to express why.

When chandhu was seventeen, he moved in with me. He had been living with his father, my ex-husband, for some time but tensions were building between them. He was particularly offended by his father’s treatment of me after our divorce. I think he just grew weary of constantly defending me from the endless tirades my ex directed towards me. Eventually, he left his father to move in with me.

I had mixed feelings about this. I love my son dearly but I had grown to appreciate my privacy. I had no concerns about modesty. I could wear whatever I wanted around the house...or go naked. It was my choice. Also, since my divorce, I had begun to enjoy the company of men. I dated. I had men over. And sometimes, they were invited to share my bed. The all Indian metro lived divorcees doing in my way I assure that.

But now, I had a young adolescent living with me. Things had to change. Out of respect for my son, I voluntarily elected to compromise my freedom... I felt I needed to shield my son from the realities of my sex life so the men were gone, banished. This was quite difficult. I am by nature an extremely sexual woman. Also, I promised myself that from now on, I would dress more "conservatively" around the apartment when he was at home.

At first, all of this was not a problem. I simply subjugated my libido by throwing myself into my work and into the nonstop effort of taking care of my boy. Actually, we turned out to be quite good roommates. Unfortunately, old habits are difficult to break. Occasionally, I would forget the impact that my physical appearance could have on an impressionable, rapidly maturing young man.

You see, without wishing to brag, I must tell you that I am quite a beautiful woman. At the time, I was 41 but few would guess that. I’m a black with piercing eyes. My skin is like alabaster since, because of my delicate complexion, I have never been a sun-worshipper. This fact has served me well and has contributed to my overall youthful appearance. I’m tall, slim but not skinny. My body is definitely feminine. I have full, rich curves in what I take to be the right places judging by the admiring stares I often elicit from men at my gym. Very often after a work-out, I like to examine my shape in the women’s locker room. My ritual is fairly structured. I’ll strip my leotards off my sweaty body and, completely nude, will walk to a large wall mirror. I check myself out, turning this way and that oblivious to the averted glances of the other women to my rather impromptu "demonstrations". Every once in a while, a woman will catch me alone and tell me what lovely breasts I have or what a great ass I’ve got!

At any rate, sometimes the power of my appearance on the sexual drive of a maturing boy is lost on me. Occasionally, I’ll forget and wear something a little too risque around the house. Nothing obscene, but sometimes inappropriate: little under skirts and perhaps a tee-shirt without the formality of a brassiere underneath. Maybe I’ll forget and amble out of my bedroom in one of the skimpy negligees I’m fond of sleeping in. Chandhu has caught me dressed in such a manner and I could clearly sense the effect I’d had on him. Sometimes he’d be embarrassed, sometimes anxious. He was never casual about it though. One time, I was taking a shower and I’d run out of soap. My shower was so hot and steaming and wonderful and the apartment was so cold, I figured I’d spare myself the shock of going into the hallway for more soap.

So I called out to chandhu to have him bring me some. After perhaps a minute, I heard the bathroom door open. I figured that chandhu would simply leave the soap on the counter. I was quite surprised when instead; he opened the door and handed it to me. There I was, steaming water cascading over my utterly nude body, my son gazing at me as he gave me the soap. He stood there for no longer than a second. However, I’ll never forget the look on his face in that instant. He was speechless, stunned, his eyes wide open. He glanced at my large breasts, the nipples erect in the moist heat. His gaze then drifted to my cunt, which had just recently been trimmed. Lastly, he looked up at my face. It was obvious that he was embarrassed even mortified at his transgression. He quickly closed the door and stepped out of the bathroom leaving me to ponder over what had just happened.

That night, and many nights since, I pictured in my mind’s eye, the image of my son as he gazed at my wet, naked body in the shower. It very quickly became clear that his expression was more than just normal adolescent male curiosity. It was the undeniable expression of lust that I’d seen from men a thousand times in my life. What was perhaps most surprising was not this realization but my reaction to it.

I found myself pleasantly excited. The thought that I actually turned on my own son became strangely thrilling to me.

Weeks went by since the soap incident. But then another event occurred that rather surprised me. One day, I was particularly exhausted after a very long day at work. I went into my bedroom and got undressed. I slipped into my favorite nightie (a big favorite of my ex-husband). Thinking my son would be out for several hours with his friends, I went into the living room to watch television. Exhausted, I fell asleep on the sofa.

I don’t know exactly what it was that caused me to awaken. My eyes slowly drifted open and there was chandhu, standing silently over me. He’d apparently been watching me as I slept. As my consciousness gradually returned, I noticed that in lying on the sofa, my nightie had ridden up my side revealing my entire right thigh and providing my son with an unobstructed view of my cunt. I had no idea how long he’d been standing there but as he became aware that I had awakened, his eyes caught my own. He smiled embarrassed and immediately darted off. I rearranged my nightie, got up and went to my bedroom to again return to sleep. The strange look on my son’s face never left me until I finally drifted off.

These events lingered in my mind. My son was clearly turned on by my physical presence. This reality became more and more exciting to me. Certainly, I knew that like all boys his age, he masturbated. He’d spend an undue amount of time in the bathroom. I’d find an occasional playboy under the mattress in his bedroom. I knew what he was doing. I never brought it to his attention or sought to embarrass him over what I took to be a completely normal activity. But lately, I had discovered something new. My own panties would turn up in the laundry hamper with obvious semen stains... An expensive brassiere would turn out to be missing from my dresser.

So my son found me physically desirable. Could it also be that I filled his fantasy life as well? When he ejaculated on my panties, did they serve as an impersonal fetish? Or were they a direct link to his recollections of me, of my body, of my own sexuality? Did my own son fantasize about making love to his own mother?

The very idea was incredible! It repulsed me. Yet at the same time it was wonderful! I tried to push the thought out of my mind but always, my mind returned to it. Perhaps my own forced celibacy was playing tricks on me. In truth, I was incredibly horny. I seemed to walk about in a constant state of arousal. I felt like I was on the verge of exploding at any moment. At times, I would even go into cold sweats and late night shivers.

One day, my son and his friend were in our garage lifting weights. I rarely bothered him when he was working out. For some reason though, I came into the garage to ask them if they wanted a cold drink. The two boys were stripped to their gym shorts and nothing else. Their bodies were covered with a thin sheen of sweat. Now anvar, my son’s friend was certainly a handsome young man with a very nice body. But I was stunned to notice how strong and muscular my own son had become. His physique was becoming very impressive.

Chandhu looked quite masculine with his shortly-cropped blond hair and his rich tan. My son was getting to be quite tall, certainly several inches taller than me (and I’m five-foot-eight). His body was developing wonderful definition and mass. The bench-pressing he was obviously doing was building a powerful, well-shaped chest that would be the envy of older more mature men. He was downright magnificent! At that moment, as I compared him to his good-looking friend, I was proud of how my own son clearly excelled. Suddenly as I was looking at him standing there in his little shorts, I found myself becoming very hot for him! It was as though a flood of female hormones surged through my very being. I don’t know if he noticed the rapid change that came over his mother at that moment, but I knew that I had to leave the garage.

That night, was the first time in my entire life as a mother that I masturbated while fantasizing about my own son.

But it wasn’t to be the last. I found myself fantasizing about him constantly. My mind would drift to images of him in all stages of undress. I pictured us making wild, passionate love. It was insane but I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop imagining my beautiful son, on top of me, showing his mother just how virile and masculine he really was, showing his mother just what he was capable of doing to a woman.

I began to speculate on ...


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