During the next week, when Michelle got home from work, she would come to my room and get in bed with me. After making love, she would go to her own room and bed. During sex, Michelle moaned and groaned and sometimes screamed. There were times I expected my mother to burst into the room to find out why her daughter was screaming.
Until last Sunday, I had never thought about my mother in a sexual way but now, even though I was fucking Michelle every night, I could not stop wanting to fuck my mother. And, there were times when it seemed mom was flirting with me. Some of the things she said and did since I got home from school seemed almost like a come-on, a hint that she was interested in me sexually.
The following Sunday, Michelle left for work at two fifteen. I went up to my room to put my laptop away and on the way back I noticed that my mother's bedroom door was open. Mom was standing at the mirror, her back towards me, fixing her hair in a ponytail. She was wearing the red bikini.
Just like the first time, seeing my mother in her red bikini was all it took to make me hard. I stood in the doorway, studying her bare shoulders and the contour of her naked back, her plump, sexy ass and her long, shapely legs. Her tanned flesh was smooth, like silk. I wanted to touch her. My cock ached to be inside her.
My mother must have seen me in the mirror. Just as I was about to leave, she said, "You can come in if you'd like."
Busted. "Oh -- uh -- I was..." I stammered, a little flustered by being caught.
She turned to face me. Seeing the front of her nearly naked body increased my arousal. "Why are you staring at me?" she asked.
Now I really was busted. I took a few steps into her room. "I told you," I reminded her, "I think you're beautiful."
"I still don't believe you," she told me. Her eyes dropped down to my bulging crotch. "Do you have a hard-on?" she asked.
"Yeah, I do," I admitted, suddenly embarrassed, "I'm sorry..."
"Don't be," my mother said, "I like knowing I can still give a guy a hard on. Especially my son." I was surprised by her bluntness, but I liked it. She sat down on the bed and crossed her bare, shapely legs. I wondered what it would be like to touch and kiss the smooth, tanned flesh.
"You could give a statue a hard-on," I told her.
"You're sweet," she said, a pleased smile on her lovely face. It was like I was talking to someone else. Certainly not my mother.
"Yeah," I said, "me and Oedipus."
"Oedipus," she repeated the name, "isn't he the guy who killed his father so he could sleep with his mother?"
"I learned about him in psychology class," I told her.
She looked at me with mock concern. "You're not planning to kill your father, are you?" my mother asked.
"Of course not," I said, smiling.
"Do you want to sleep with your mother?" she wanted to know.
I wanted to answer but nothing came out.
"Failure to answer is usually an admission of guilt," my mother said. That was a hold over from my childhood.
"I know," I told her.
"You don't think your mom is too old for sex?" she asked, looking directly at me.
"Are you kidding? You're the youngest mom I know," I told her, "and the hottest. Especially in that bikini."
