Jans Story 2

It wasn't until I read the story, that my indecent thoughts morphed into wildly sexual desires. By the time I logged-off of this web site, my right hand was lodged between my shaking thighs and two fingers were feverishly diddling my puffy, moist clitoris. The tale it told and the vivid images it described were so shattering and sensual to me, that I found myself hungering to make it happen. The erotic, twisted images that it conveyed danced through my restless nights, working towards the surface. There had been small hints recently where I was forced to examine my thinking. I was dressing a bit more provocatively or wearing my blouse more unbuttoned than before. Instead of dressing for breakfast, I actually put-on a more flimsy nightgown than I had awoken in, and a slinky, sheer robe. And after my bath I often strutted around the house with only a towel wrapped around my wet, supple body. My long dark hair hung loosely dripping on my shoulders. I would act distracted or as if I had lost something, always bending or stretching to reveal more skin, before padding back to the privacy and security of my room.

My bath was becoming both a soothing and frustrating experience. While soaking in the warm, sudsy water; my mind would drift away to the potent sexual imagery that had been exposed. To my rather conservative, spiritual upbringing, the very thought of what I was contemplating was a sin. But when I paired a face and name to these wanton acts, it revealed a taboo, incestuous fantasy. Invariably my legs would part beneath the warm flow of the faucet and my fingers would begin their intricate march through my soapy, black pubic thatch.

I fight the uneasy feeling that comes over me at these wistful times. The prurient flashes of sexual deviance twist in my mind and haunt my every waking moment. I find that I masterbate more now than during my puberty, and the unseemly thoughts and passions cause a wicked sensation that all the rubbing and poking cannot quite quench. It is a new type of emotion for me, dark and extremely taboo.

I lie to myself, saying that I only use a familiar name because that person is so dear to me. And since it has been so long since I have been with anyone; it is just "natural" that my desires are triggered by the firm, vibrant body of a person I see every day. I hope to believe that this wonderful body belongs to some faceless, fantasy form. But the name does intrude on my dream. When the actual image presents itself to my frenzied mind, my sexuality zooms into hyperdrive. My fingers delve deeper into the folds of my tingling vagina. They start a rhythmic strumming at the sensitive tip of my clit and then plunge inside my throbbing pussy. It's as if I no longer control these frantic urges.

My left hand squeezes my left breast, gently massaging my ample bosom. I feel the thumping of my heart and the raging flood of pressure storming towards my loins. A lump forms in my throat and my breath comes in quick gasps. My chest tightens and the smallish, brown protrusions of flesh stiffen. I grip it tighter and pull it to my hungry mouth. My neck strains and my long tongue flicks towards the firm, dark nipple. This small, dark nub- the object of my pursuit. I lick at it while my slender fingers bring my snatch to a sweet, thrilling orgasm. My stomach muscles clench and my thighs grow stiff. My ass and hips bounce off the bottom of the tub as I thrust forward to greet the hard-driving piston-action of my digits. I am at the brink of bliss.

At the extended moment of climax the soapy water churns, my painted toes curl, I suck greedily on my breast and the tidal wave of orgasmic fluids flood my insides. My sticky fingers slowly relax and take their place in my mouth. My taste buds savor the tart, oily secretion and my limp body settles back into the comforting bath. A low moan echoes through the room and my warm torso quivers. I lay spent in the glow. This used to be the time at the end of my bath, that I would trim the wiry hairs of my vagina, that has changed. Now I need to lay back and let my breathing return to normal and wait for my fingers to stop their shaking. Tonight another thought enters my mind. I remember the story again. In it the writer was delighted to find, that after I was rendered naked; my "clean-shaven pussy glistened from silky oils, and a scent of honey-suckle perfume." Could I ever offer my naked body to someone for their inspection? Especially someone in my family?

I deliberated for a long while, knowing that the next kinky step, could lead to my ultimate surrender. The sharp razor perched at the top of my ebony thicket of coarse growth. With extreme trepidation, I take the razor and drag it across the curly hairs on my mound. After the initial shock, I continue to plow the field. It was done, I was mildly amazed. I hardly remember a time that my vagina was this bare. With extra care, I tidied-up the delicate edges and underside and stared transfixed at my bald pussy. A "cunt" it was called on the web site, I would recall a number of taboo, naughty phrases. The sinful thoughts rushed into my mind again. I have shaved my pubic patch because I wished and hoped to show it off to this fantasy lover. In this sensual state, I was prepared to present my most private area, in it's most primal condition, to my new master for approval. I wanted this fantasy lover to be "delighted with my shaved, sweet, smooth cunt." The taboo dream was real!

My legs were wobbly and my breathing labored when I finally gazed at myself, naked and anxious, in the full-length mirror. The first thing I had always noticed in the glass was the slight muffin of flesh around my middle, it jiggled a bit but was not sloppy. And of course the 34Ds were unavoidable, sitting high and firm. They had not yet begun to sag, the soft nipples with their light-brown areola still poked-out straight. The raven-dark hair laid in wet, sexy sheets on my shoulders and framed my icy-blue eyes. I have a small, fleshy nose and full, plump lips. This evening those lips were clamped tight with my teeth biting down hard enough to draw blood. My blue eyes scanned down the reflection and stopped at the lighter shade of skin at the triangle, and newly obvious focal-point of my anatomy. I blushed a very rosy shade of pink and with both hands, tried to cover my exposed pussy lips from my own totally embarrassed eyes. It took a few exasperating minutes to conclude that my vaginal hairs would not grow back any time soon, and I needed to reconcile the fact that I looked like a teenager with an over-aged face.

When I finally accepted the appearance of my clinical-looking vagina, I began to pose and turn my body so that I could catch this new look from all angles. I eventually made peace with my body and once again, the wicked thoughts of revealing myself to another person rushed into my head.

I stifled a laugh as I dried off, and decided that tonight was not the time for just wearing a towel or for some sort of unveiling. Long pajamas and directly to bed for me. Though the bed brought only minimal comfort. This new look was like getting a toy for the holidays, I couldn't keep my hands off. I could not relax until I ran my hand over the smooth, freshly-oiled flesh. As if my pussy was whispering to me for pleasure. I couldn't stop the palm of my hand from gliding over my yearning clitoral hood. The rough touch of my hand scraping the marble-smooth skin caused a ripple, then a torrent of euphoria. It wasn't long for this new sensation and "delightful thrill" to envelop me. The first orgasm from my newly shaved "cunt" rocked my insides and helped me to drift off to sleep, to visions of someone else exploring me.

The morning light brought an end to some torturous dreams and I woke feeling exhausted and damp. After freshening-up, I applied a new coating of cream to my face, cleavage and "cunt." Then a spritz of perfume to top and bottom. When I slipped-on a lacy negligee, I noticed for the first time that there was not a shadow at the "Y" between my thighs. And also, I felt the breezy smoothness under my panties. I was truly excited to start breakfast for the two of us and to be standing in the kitchen for that "new" first impression. My eyes and blushing cheeks would probably give my secret away, I laughed to myself, not sure if anything would even be obvious besides from my nervous giggling. But I may have to fight the urge not to strip at the first glance I received. I fairly danced down the steps, my heart racing in anticipation, hoping my secret admirer might spy my new look. I was giddy when I approached the kitchen. Then I saw the note.

Propped against a coffee cup, sat a scrap of lined note-book paper, with the simple sentence that made my heart sink: "Mom, had to work early, see ya' tonite!- love, Dave."

Once again I could feel my heart thumping. Perspiration broke out on my forehead and upper lip, my knees were weak. I poured a cup of coffee, scarfed some aspirin and sat down for another soul-searching conversation with myself. I felt like I just missed my bus, but also like I got a reprieve from the governor. How could I be so confused and conflicted? Did I really want to undress for my twenty year-old kid? Was this the end-result of weeks filled with dirty banter and teasing dress? I needed to think. Did his leading words and my longing needs, combine to provoke in me, some type of sexual slave?

The coffee pot was empty. Three aspirin seemed to have worked. I washed the few dishes and headed for the bedroom to get dressed. That is when the tingly little reminder hit me. Just as I slid the undies down my thighs, I caught a glimpse and then the aroma, of my hairless crotch. "My Gawd," I yelped, "I shaved my pussy to show my son! To please him."

With unbelievably good luck, I had managed to escape this tangled situation. It could easily have become an embarrassing and ridiculous moment that could have sucked me in like it was quicksand. It was time for serious reevaluation. What made me think that my grown son wanted to have sex with me? I slumped on the bed and reviewed the past month.

It started with that "girlie" magazine, MOSTLY MATURES. He was thumbing through the pages one day, smirking and grinning, when I caught him unaware. He wasn't shy or embarrassed about it, why should he be, he's a grown man? We sat in an awkward silence for awhile, he turning pages and stealing furtive glances in my direction. And I, feigning nonchalance, but inwardly feeling uneasy and troubled by how he seemed to handle a highly-charged sexual situation. I was self-conscious though, when I spotted his big eyes continually shift from the glossy images, to my chest and legs. He never said a word, but was breathing heavier and needed to adjust his pants and was squirming in his chair. The thin shirt and bra I was wearing could not conceal the growing outline of my nipples even as I struggled to think of things other than sex. My hands continuously moved to cover my chest, and I felt an unaccustomed, warm shudder between my legs. I was blushing enough to have to have to leave the room. My embarrassment and fidgety behavior should have been a clue to us both.

A few days later he asked my opinion on breast augmentation. I stuttered for an answer and then replied, that it wasn't really my subject, I worried for a second that I didn't measure-up in the boobs department. When I quizzed him for an explanation, he said that he preferred the more natural look. "I like to see some bounce and a little heaviness, sort of the way older chicks appear. You've got a great rack, Mom." That dazed me! I wasn't certain if he complemented me or if I should be irate that he was "eyeing me up."

I should probably have let that slide, but my interest had been piqued. "What is this fascination with older women?" Now I was truly curious; my son, whom I had always thought was very popular with the young ladies, was showing an odd attraction to women of his mother's age.

That is when he blurted-out, "I am turned-on by the MILF type, infact I wrote a science-fiction piece about it on my blog." He went on to explain that young girls hold no allure for him, and that his blog stories tell tales of mixed-age relations and muddled roles. Then he was out the door. Leaving me to wonder what we had just talked about. I didn't think it was intentional at the time, but our conversations had taken on a sensual and seductive tone, and it was quickly searing itself into my imagination. I needed to unravel the enigma.

The whole blog thing was a mystery to me. But his casual remarks and cryptic insinuations got me curious, and slightly aroused. Later, after he went to bed, I was compelled to explore the site for myself. He wrote of a "future world" where mature women could be "owned" and "used." One in particular had my name and in the story, was his mother! A "turn-on" doesn't begin to tell this story! After reading through it, my mind was flooded with strange emotions and wild images. I sat sheltered in my room, confused yet intrigued by his visions. Was he trying to tell me something? Is this something I wanted to hear? A fantasy place where my son wrote of having his mother as his sex slave.

The graphic images and sex-filled conversations had my blood pumping once more, and I found that my hand had tunneled inside my panties again. Laying on my bed, by the soft blue light of the screen, my knees were bent with my fingers squishing into my snatch. I jumped up before anything crazier happened. My perky nipples were tenting through my sheer nightie and the creamy moisture at my pelvis was trickling down my thighs and wicking in to my satin underwear. My orgasm was imminent and felt to be powerful, but I dearly wanted to reread the piece and make myself explode at the moment of "his Mom's ravishing." The idea of a mother's incestuous enslavement to her son, brought me to a wonderful completion and a shattering climax. I loved the way he described the woman in his piece as "hungry for pleasure" and eager to "shed forty years of sexual repression." It was becoming a turn-on for me too. It was if he knew me too well.

I was able to use this fantasy sequence many times in the coming days. I was becoming quite adept at plotting the arrow across the screen with one hand, while rapidly fingering my hungry pussy with the other. And then one time when my sticky fingers tapped the keys to his site, I was shocked and pleased to discover that he had added another ribald volume to his fantasy. His mother "Jan," had now become a member of his harem. These captive women were all willing subjects of "The Master." Jan had become his new favorite. He enjoyed raping her infront of the others and was training her to perform "the perfect blow-job." This was where she was made to engage in woman-on-woman sex and afterward, they shaved each other's vaginas for his amusement. She was enjoying the naughty sex and the chance to be "a dirty little girl." She wanted her Svengali-like son to ravish her and release her deep, sexual fantasies.

She had been tamed and taught that pleasing her Master sexually, was the highest ideal a mother could obtain. Where did he get those ideas, and why did they start my pulse racing? His idealized mother was able to readily accept the concept of incest and actually enjoyed the illicit thrill of forced sex with her son. In the story, his mother wore loose-fitting, gauzy outfits that showed her heaving boobs. When he wanted, he could set her on his lap while he fondled her plump tits. He made it a point to tell her that her tits now belonged to him. She never wore a bra and any clothes should easily allow for his touch. Or he could slip the gown from her shoulders, to squeeze her fleshy mounds, as she dropped to her knees to practice her fellatio. And Gawd did she ever suck him off, eager and often. All I could think was, that I would gain ten pounds from all the semen he wanted me to swallow. It seemed that my son fantasized about me sucking his cock ten to fifteen times a day. It is weird, but I found myself imagining my role in that world. I was thinking that I owned a couple of see-through outfits but I had never really engaged in oral-sex. WAIT, what was I thinking? This was truly starting to bewilder me.

By answering his queries and wearing revealing clothes around him, that I could see he enjoyed, was I contributing to his fantasy and somehow to my own? Did I really want to act out these deviant desires that were boiling to the surface of my psyche? Did I now, want this young stud- my son- to dominate my mind and body?

In these stories I would come to his room in the mornings wearing a diaphanous robe that I would shed whenever he wished, to reveal my "bald, brazen cunt." I would rouse him from his slumbers with a warm, wet blowjob. His eyes would open to see his naked, excited mom greedily slurping on his thick rod. I learned just from reading this, that I should use my "flat, wet tongue," to lick his balls and then work my way up his swollen shaft to the huge, knobby tip. I should swirl my pink tongue around the overhanging ridge, my saliva oozing down the long stem, and then slowly envelop the gigantic mushroom head in my mouth, then farther into my throat.

While I suck the rigid tool and stroke the slick, thick shaft, fingering each purplish vein; my other hand will be rubbing my shiny, bald cunt. After I bring each of our genitals to the brink of orgasm, and the room is loud with the moaning and grunting of enthusiasm; I am to swivel around so that he can taste my thick flow as I gulp down his salty, creamy load. Though I'm still quivering, he eases me along his chest to his hips, and forcibly drives his amazingly solid cock into my torrid gash. All the while he calls me mom and slut interchangeably. And pumps that monstrous, gleaming knob impossibly deep into my ravenous cavern.

My faith has taught me that there can be no worse obsession than a mother wanting to have sex with her son. I also know that tales as old as time, have told of illicit, submissions of moms not being able to resist the incestuous seductions of their sons. Seeing in print that my son truly wants to fuck me and have me service him as a sex-slave, ignites an emotional spark in me. And I can hear it in my own mind, to the sound of his cum-filled balls slapping my hot ass, my son calling me his mom/slut as he buries his tool in my hairless pussy. And takes complete possession of me. The onrush of my orgasm was so strong that it seemed to go on for an hour. My fingers stroked my raging slit like a piston engine. I melted infront of the computer and continued to massage my steamy snatch. I squeezed and tugged my aching tits as if my Master had me in his grasp. I moaned and writhed on the sheets, soaked in sweat and stewing in pussy-juice, like a rutting whore. In my delirium, I even managed to roll onto my knees, wedging two cum-slickened digits into my virginally tight backside, and scream "please honey, fuck my hot ass!" It was intense.

When I recovered my senses and wrapped my trembling, sticky body in a crocheted afghan; I made certain that I was still alone in the house and then padded off to a warm bath, where today I would need only to soak my weary torso. In the tub, I startled at every sound an old house makes. I had a lingering fear that my son had snuck-in. Or that he had a hidden camera, and captured me in my nasty, new obsession, the better to hold over me as an unnecessary form of blackmail to force my compliance. If he only knew how close I was and how eager I was to become a part of his "future world." It only acted as another deviant scenario I could use to masturbate with. All my thoughts seemed to center around my ultimate submission, and my horny body ached for the pleasure. I was tripping deeper and deeper into this lustful other world.