[This fanciful story is of two consenting people well-over twenty-one, and revolves around what they both believe the other is thinking. It is purely a work of fiction and no animals were harmed in the process.]
I've been thinking a lot lately about sex. Ah I know, that doesn't make me any different than 99.9% of the population. So to be more precise, I've been pondering all of its thorny implications. How that, sometimes it's not even a good idea to discuss some of the sexual feelings that you have regarding another person, and that translating those erotic thoughts into actions can have you ostracized, pilloried, or shot! Still, the human sex drive can be maddeningly insistent. Only societal convention and an acute allergy towards buckshot keep most of us from humping in the streets.
But the aching desire for whom or what we're attracted to can occasionally present a problem for either or both parties involved in a sexual dalliance. Some sexual situations are merely frowned upon while others are declared illegal or repugnant. Though I am hardly one to judge the morality of others, I won't begin to absolve those who lust after other unwilling adults, any children, or certain beleaguered farm animals. But the cock wants what the cock wants. I once heard it said, that you could turn to any page in the Sears Catalogue and point to an object, and somebody somewhere wants to fuck it!
The ability to distract or tame our primal urges is often beyond our meager control. Often a whithering glance is enough to adjust a wayward attitude. Sometimes it takes a wicked slap to the face. Recognizing just how far we can push this indelicate subject can be traced to a true survival instinct. This brings me to the quaint notion of "consenting adults." It's difficult enough to find two people whose temperaments and inhibitions mesh in a way; that beyond the need to procreate, they form a union of like minds and reciprocal desires, that endure for a relative period of time and produce the sexual and emotional gratification needed to keep the relationship vital.
Even then though, many of these unions are not always welcomed in "so-called" civilized society. Same-sex, mixed-race, May-September romance and incest come instantly to mind. This leads me to the revelation that I have never spoken of out loud. And that is, that I am fucking my own mother. Let that sink in for a second, because I know that it always takes a moment for me to fully realize the taboo nature of our little predicament. The mythical tale of Oedipus has a truly morose ending, but the illicit thrill of seducing and possessing your mother for bouts of sexual satisfaction and/or degradation is a haunting urge. This is not a Hallmark story of unrequited love, it's a morally obscene wet dream of fulfilling a dark, deviant desire.
My name is Michael, everybody calls me Mickey. I am now twenty-six, and this began about two yeaars ago. I am tall and lanky, nothing in particular distinguishes my appearance. Dark hair, dark eyes, clean-shaven with the makings of a beer belly, and a dragon tattoo on my left shoulder. My features apparently came from my father's side. But enough about me.
My mother's name is Helen. She is now in her late forties and her lithe body has succumbed to the effects of nearly five decades of fighting gravity. She was never a model and would not ever be mistaken for my "older sister." But I have seen pictures of when she first captivated my dad, and to be blunt, any red-blooded male seeing those prints of her prancing half-dressed in her native Nordic land, would be hard-pressed to not spend the next few moments stretching and tugging his manhood. She was a striking young woman with girl-next-door sex appeal. Her rich auburn-blonde hair, which I beg her not to ever cut, falls in creamy sheets to the middle of her lean back. She has blue eyes as deep as the fjords, that sparkle when she smiles and crinkles at the edges with small lines that enrage her but for me, only enhance her sexy image. And the blue orbs shine like the ice fields of the old country when she is rapt in orgasmic bliss. A secret obsession of mine is that while virginal maidens have an untouched quality that older women can never get back, the more mature vixens have an experienced edge of sophistication and knowledge that younger girls are just not born with.
My mother has aged gently. The youthful flower is no longer on the rose, but she has grown to accept her weaknesses and to emphasize her remarkably sensual traits. Her strong, angular jaw with the sharp cheekbones have become sprinkled with freckles from years in the warm sun, especially across the bridge of her aristocratic nose. She says they look silly on a grown woman, I tell her that they bring out the playful side of her exotic aspect. Her features are pale but she has learned to apply make-up to match her mood, and since our discreet tryst blossomed, I have seen her as kittenish or vampy, and she can now easily seduce me with her wily charms. She fought her incestuous feelings as they crept in upon her, figuring that anyone is entitled to a fantasy life, as long as these deviant urges are not acted on. But when she realized the overwhelming cravings were taking hold of her and bringing on taboo lusts that threatened the very boundaries of her upbringing, she was compelled to rationalize how her pleasures were more substantial than her morality.
