The day my parents sat me down and told me I was adopted was, admittedly, something of a bombshell.
They said that they didn't love me any less because of it, and that obviously in their eyes I was as much a part of the family as if I had been conceived in their marriage. Their concern was that I wouldn't reciprocate those feelings. I assured them I did, and that, blood or no blood, they were my parents and it was my biological relations who were at a loss.
My father is a Catholic priest, and as such I had always pondered my conception. I had simply assumed that I was the result of a previous relationship of my mother, or that I was conceived before my father officially became a clergyman. However, with my curiosity now satisfied, I wasn't particularly sure I liked the truth I was presented with, or that, despite my reassurances, I still respected them as parents.
My mother is the head of nursing at a local Christian hospital, and as a result was consistently on call, and had minimal time for socializing and getting out and meeting people. She had met my father when she was young and about to undertake a nursing internship. Their courtship was lengthy, but they would often sickeningly reminisce about how they had known immediately how perfect they were for each other.
Marriage followed, and subsequently my adoption. They were both 23 – young parents, but with a nurse and a priest as guardians, they were undoubtedly responsible enough to raise a child.
They were now 42, and Dad's hair was beginning to thin, and he started to use the more generous holes in his belt. Mom on the other hand, had so far retained the looks that haunted the dreams of her high school class. She wasn't "hot", but by God she was beautiful. She had pointed features which complemented her slimming figure beautifully, big baleful green eyes and a little point on the tip of her right ear which gave her a somewhat elfish appearance. She wore her dark brown, almost black, hair cropped close to her head, and that wasn't all about her that was little. She stood a head shorter than me, with a stereotypical hourglass figure, and a strict exercise regime she adhered to meant her breasts had so far retained their youthful perkiness. There wasn't much of an ass there, but plenty to fill out a pair of jeans and look a million bucks.
But I digress.
Our story starts in the summer holidays the year after I finished my first year at college. I was home for the summer as a fresh-faced, idealistic 19 year old, with the world as my oyster. I had arranged to meet up with some old friends, but after 10 minutes of walking to our agreed meeting place, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A text saying that unfortunately my friend had agreed to help his father with various errands, and had absent-mindedly double-booked his afternoon and would I mind terribly meeting up another time. I set back a quick reply, saying of course not, before turning around and resuming my walk home. I took my time, gazing at how the neighborhood had changed in one short year. Before I knew it I was back outside the front door, traipsing upstairs to put my headphones on and drift into a mindless stupor.
The first sign of something odd was that Mom was nowhere in sight. She told me she would be glad to get rid of me for the afternoon so I wasn't getting under her feet while she washed, dusted and performed other wifely duties in one of her rare moments away from work. I shrugged it off and continued upstairs.
Then I heard noises.
Coming from my parents' bedroom. It sounded like a muffled kind of cry, the kind someone would give if they were in a small amount of pain, but for some reason or other refused to cry out. Fearing the worst I grabbed the nearest "weapon", (an umbrella propped against the wall) and burst into the room, flinging the door open, umbrella swinging wildly. What I saw shocked me more than if there HAD been a stranger in the house.
My mother was lying in bed, her back arched and legs spread wider than I would've thought possible. She was stark naked, save for an enticing pink lace bra which obscured my view of her breasts. The bad faced the door, so I was presented with a front-on, front-row seat to her pussy and rear-end. In her right hand she clutched a magnificent metallic blue dildo – large, glistening, with just the right amount of curve in it.
Needless to say, upon my intrusion she sat bolt upright, a look of horror at being caught etched in her features, and threw the sheet she had only moments before been grasping in ecstasy, over her half-naked body. Still wearing an obvious expression of utter disbelief, I turned and fled the room, dimly aware of how tight my pants suddenly were, and just how awkward fleeing was at the time. Her excuses fell on deaf ears.
I stumbled into my room and collapsed on my bed, still trying to digest what I had seen. It wasn't so much the fact that I now had concrete evidence that my mother masturbated, I suspected as much given Dad's profession, obviously obligated not to sleep with his wife, but the fact that I had caught her in the act was both shocking and somewhat disturbing.
