Happy twentieth story to me
Happy twentieth story to me......
To celebrate, I have a new series. A fictional, incestuous tale of mother and son, of dangerous and sometimes impersonal, hot sex, and a sense of disbelief.
I hope you enjoy. Your feedback helps my ideas form.
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At the time it first happened, I was a far cry from the sultry protagonists in most of these stories.
Samantha, Houston, Sammie to my friends, I'm neither tall, thin, blonde nor, in my opinion, drop dead gorgeous. I am 5 foot 5, and no matter how many workouts I'll ever do, I'll always have a somewhat pronounced potbelly, from having both my kids by 23 years old, with my 36DD breasts jutting out over it, in my non-sexy, underwired white bra. Working out had helped to keep my ass trim, and I had looked after myself for almost all of my 41 years, but I just had to face facts long ago that my body was built with natural curves.
Also, I haven't been abandoned by my husband either, nor was I sex starved, regularly enjoying the sights and feelings of Mike, my husband, having his nose buried in my dark brown bush, as he snuffles at my pussy before he impaled me with his 6 inch rod.
We had a son and daughter, she was living with her boyfriend, Marcus, at university. Thomas, my son and only child still living at home, had never been the academical sort and had left school at 17, enrolling in an apprenticeship to become a mechanic, as he had always had a keen interest in cars. As a result, Mike's Dad, Thomas's grandfather, had agreed that if he could get it going and back on the road, Thomas could have his 1968 Ford Mustang, that had fallen into dilapidation.
For six weeks, Thomas and Mike had did nothing with their spare time other than take this pile of shite apart, to see how bad it really was. The answer was quite clear, it was awful. In some places, my husband had said that it was the rust that was holding it together, but that generally, the body was sturdy enough.
Work at it they did, every night and I asked them what they were going to do with it whenever they were done. They told me they, setting themselves a goal date of 1 year, they were going to enter it in a vintage rally across the Scottish Highlands, to raise money for cancer research. To say I was a proud Mum was an understatement, but secretly I doubted that they would ever get this thing back on the road by next March. Of course, my son was documenting his every move for his course, under guidance of his mate Ben, who was a year older than him and helped out, when Mike was at work.
Summer came, and the Mustang was taking shape, now almost distinguishable as a Ford Mustang. I had appointed myself my two boys' chief assistant, bringing them lemonade, sandwiches and biscuits. I also noticed that I also brought them both a good eyeful of cleavage at times. My husband checking out my tits was fine, as for Thomas, seeing my son hold a good stare down my tank top, blouse or t-shirt as I placed their their refreshments down before them, left me smiling, but curiously distracted.
My son was not built like Arnold Schwarzeneggerr, with flowing locks and a 10 inch cock (not that I knew that then) but was a quite a scrawny, 5 foot 7 boy, and by the time it happened he was an 18 years old, with a girlfriend, called Shannon. Annoyingly, I had yet to meet Shannon, after a 3 month relationship I was maybe being slightly over zealous, but he got very shy whenever I brought the subject up, like there was something to hide.
My husband was an oil rig worker, and was away for weeks on end, and they would time it almost to perfection so that Mike would be there for all the heavy stuff. Ben was also a great help, until that one night late August, when the sun had been high all day and the temperature was searing and sticky.
From the garage at the side of the house, I could hear swearing from my son, and expecting to find his friend helping him as usual when his Dad was away, Thomas was underneath the car that was on its ramp, cursing and swearing at something.
"What's wrong?" I asked, as he thumped, underneath the wheel arch.
"This fucking thing won't go fucking on right. It's really fucking pissing me off now!"
There's something about watching a man working with his hands, something carnal and erotic. I used to get wet while watching my husband working on his car, seeing him probing at things, twisting other things with his fingers, contrasting lightly feathering things into place, with taking a hammer and pounding things into submission.
As he had said these words he had looked at me, standing in my Jeans shorts and pink tank top and already regretting my decision to take my bra off. I offered to help and he said thanks, and he had me holding a piece of metal with a hole on the end. I have no idea what it was, but as he stood again and stretched up beside me, our bodies being this close together felt different. I briefly caught him looking at my chest, as my arms being stretched upwards had pulled the material of my top, together with my unhindered tits, together. I was shamefully displaying quite a lot of deep cleavage.
Just then, he nipped his finger, before he threw his tools to the ground and peppered the air with more swearwords. I knew that there was something else bothering him, call it mother's instinct or whatever, and I asked, "Thomas! Enough with the swearing, let me see that cut," I said and went to get a plaster.
Holding his hand between us, I cleaned it with an antiseptic wipe, but I could tell there was something more to it than what looked like a small paper cut. Looking up, seeing his eyes flick away from my chest, I took a moment to process that, and as I secured a little plaster on his finger, asked, "Thomas, now what is really wrong? And why is Ben not here?"
Not looking at me, he was firming down the band aid on the small cut when he replied, "The same reason Shannon isn't here. They're probably fucking right now!"
Again, I admonished him for the language, but probed a little deeper and he lowered his hands, turned to walk away and said, "She was getting annoyed because I'm always here. He took her out to a friend's and.....you know."
I crossed the garage floor to where he had stopped to drop the used pieces of bloodied tissue in the bin. With him being only 2 inches taller than me, I turned him around and made him look me in the eyes. "Thomas, are you sure? You go back a long way with Ben," I said, but when he handed me his mobile phone from his pocket and showed me pictures of them kissing, it was all too plain to see.
I didn't know how serious it had been, how intimate they had been together, or even if my son was a virgin. As I flicked through the pictures, seeing Ben cup the buxom brunette's plump butt cheeks in his hands, it would suggest that, at least those two, were not. As I looked, I realised that I had been lingering too long, as it thundered down upon me why my son had not brought his girlfriend home.
What with her dark brown hair and her chunky build, Thomas had been dating the very definition of his mother in her younger days.
