My Friend My Lover My Mother #01

Friend, My Lover, My Mother, #01

This story is about a mother's forbidden desire for her son. Inappropriately taking sexual advantage of him, a seductive, and secret whore of a MILF of a mother seduced her innocent and loving son.

My name is Michael. I'm 24-years-old. I'm a 6' 4" tall, 230-pound, muscular, single man. Never having had a close, long term, sexually romantic relationship with a woman, sadly and disappointingly, I've already given up on finding a Miss Right. Perhaps being too picky, I always see too many things wrong with a woman that I find appealing at first sight when trying to find my perfect woman, my person, and my soulmate.

With two many women glued to their cellphones, preoccupied with social media, partying too much with alcohol and drugs, and having sex with anyone and everyone, I don't want the mother of my children to have a sordid past. I don't want my wife to be a whore, a drunk, or a druggie. I definitely don't want my wife to have her arms, her legs, her back, and her torso decorated with nonsensical tattoos and piercings. I want a woman who I'd be proud to call my wife and introduce to my mother.

I need a good woman, a kind and sensitive woman, a woman who is intelligent, a loving heart, and a good sense of humor. Knowing that she's out there somewhere, I need to find my best friend and my constant companion. I need a woman who won't spend all of my money on her hair, her makeup, her fingernails, new shoes, and designer clothes. I need a woman who loves to cook and likes to clean while raising our children.

I need a woman who wants to have sex with me as much as I want to have sex with her. Not wanting a one-sided, love relationship, I must have a woman who loves me as much as I love her. Forcing myself to admit it, something that's seemingly impossible to find, I need a woman like my mother. With her as moral as she is modest, not much of a drinker, and never having taken drugs, a consciously careful spender, as far as I know, my loving mom was faithful to my father.

# # #

Tired of being alone and doing everything alone, I was depressed because I couldn't find my soulmate, my one and only. Having never been depressed before, I decided to see a psychiatrist for my depression. I needed professional help to know why I was so picky. I found something wrong with every woman that I dated.

"Why are you here," asked Dr. Sheila Martin?

Embarrassed to tell her, I rubbed my hands together while slouching in my chair.

"I'm depressed," I said.

She nodded her head while writing in her pad.

"Why are you depressed?"

I gave her a sad smile.

"I can't find my Miss right," I said. "Too many women have their attention on their cell phones. Without even getting to know me, they're ready to have sex on the first date. Some of these women are just as bad as men. Rather than having a committed relationship, all they want is sex."

She wrote in her pad while nodding her head.

"I see," she said. "Tell me more."

Ready to confess everything to her, my depression was why I was paying for her help. I was ready to give her my laundry list of dislikes.

"I hate women with tattoos and piercings. I don't like women who party too much. I don't want a woman who is more into doing her hair, her nails, her makeup, and shopping at the mall to buy more shoes than spending her time with me," I said.

She nodded her head again while writing in her pad.

"Not that you told me about the type of woman that you don't want, tell me about the type of woman who you hope to find," she said. "What does she look like? What are her qualities," she asked?

Suddenly, I felt that I was consulting a dating service consultant rather than a psychiatrist.

"She must be educated, a college graduate, be smart, have maturity, and commonsense. She must be funny, love me, and want to have as much sex with me as I hoped to have with her," I said while being concise and without going into too much detail.

She nodded her head while writing her notes.

"What does your dream woman look like," she asked?

Again, I imagined her fixing me up with one of her patients.

"Well, she's tall," I said.

Immediately, she responded.

"How tall," she asked?

I smiled.

"With me six-foot-four-inches tall, she must be at least five-foot-eight-inches to six-foot tall," I said.

She continued writing her notes.

"What else," she asked? "What color hair, eyes, and body type should she have?"

I imagined my perfect woman standing before me.

"I like redheads with blue eyes and freckles. I love women with freckles, but not too many, just enough to let me know that they're natural redheads," I said with a laugh. "I prefer shapely women to skinny women."

She nodded her head while writing.

"Tell me, how old is your perfect woman," she asked?

Suddenly, I felt a little embarrassed that I preferred an older woman.

"I prefer an older woman than a younger woman. I prefer a woman between 40 years old and 50 years old," I said.

She nodded her head while writing.

"Do you have a preference for breast size?"

I smiled.

"Breast size," I said while thinking that was an odd question for a female psychiatrist to ask?

She looked up at me and smiled.

"Yes, some men prefer women with smaller breasts while others prefer women with bigger breasts," she said.

I felt embarrassed admitting to her that I liked big tits, especially when she had small breasts.

"Big breasts," I said. "The bigger the better. I prefer women with big tits," I said, holding my hands out in front of my chest. "I prefer her to have big, natural breasts and not implants," I said.

# # #

She remained quiet while writing in her pad. Then, she asked me another question that I thought was strange for her to ask.

"Tell me about your mother," she said.

"My mother," I said.

I wasn't here about my mother. I was here about me being depressed because I can't find my person. My mother has nothing to do with how I feel and why I'm so sad and alone.

"Yes. Tell me about her," she said. "What does your mother look like," she asked?

I smiled at her with pride.

"My mother is beautiful. She's tall, 5' 9" tall, has red hair, blue eyes, and freckles. She has huge double D cup breasts," I said.

She nodded her head while writing.

"How old is your mother," she asked?

"She's forty-six years old," I said. "She doesn't look her age. She looks ten-years younger. If I didn't know how old she was, I'd think that she was in her thirties instead of her forties.

She looked up at me and smiled.

"Michael," she said while smiling up at me.

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward in her chair and with pad and pen in hand.

"The reason why you're unable to find your person, and your perfect companion is because you've already found her," she said with a pause. "You want a person who looks like, walks like, talks like her, and laughs like your mother. You're sexually attracted to her. You want your mother," she said.

# # #

Telling me something that I already knew but never admitted to myself or confessed to anyone, she made me understand that I have mother issues. Until she said it out loud as her professional opinion, I never knew that, as a grown man, the reason why I couldn't find my woman was because none of them measured up to my perception of my MILF of a mother. Indeed, she was right. I was in love with my mother.

'What the fuck? This is unbelievable. I want my mother,' I thought when leaving the doctor's office. 'Is it that obvious that I 'm sexually attracted to my mother. I can't believe it. I want to have sex with her. My mother is my woman.'

Hard for me to believe, with it now echoing loudly and continually in my head, I wanted my mother. Embarrassed, ashamed, and feeling perverted, I didn't dare tell her what the doctor said. I'm sexually attracted to her. I'm in love with her but not in the way that a son should love his mother. I love her in the way that a man loves a woman. I want to have sex with her.

Hard to wrap my head around what my psychiatrist told me in confidence, I want to have sex with my deceased father's wife. I want to slowly undress the woman who gave birth to me while making out with her and touching and feeling her everywhere through her clothes where that a son should never touch and feel his mother. I wanted to have sex with my mother.

With my psychiatrist giving me her professional opinion, what she said weighed heavily on my heart. As exciting as it was shocking to learn, I want to strip my mother naked. I want to finger her pussy while fondling her huge breasts and sucking her big nipples.

Not stopping there, I want to masturbate her. I want to give her oral sex. I want to lick her pussy while fingering her pussy. I want to eat my mother's cunt. I want to give her an orgasm with my fingers and my tongue. I want to watch her and hear her cum.

'Michael! Michael! Oh, my God, Michael. Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God," I imagined her writhing on her bed in arousal!

Giving her what I thought she wanted and what she needed, I imagined giving her oral sex.

'Don't stop fingering me. Don't stop licking me. Eat your mother, Michael. I'm cumming. Mommy is cumming,' I imagined her saying while I gave her oral sex.

I imagined her closing her eyes, arching her back, and stiffening her long and shapely legs before falling silent to enjoy the afterglow of sex.

# # #

With the timing of my psychiatrist's revelation not the best, even after learning that I sexually wanted my mother, I still looked forward to living with her again. Not persuading me from changing my plans, I still moved in with my mother a year after my father died from COVID complications. Instead of staying away from her, I had a valid reason for moving in with her. My excuse to live with her, she struggled to pay the bills, and I wanted to help her financially.

Yet, I never expected to help her emotionally as much as she wanted to seduce me out sexually. Perhaps, instead of moving in with her, I should have given her money. Yet, I couldn't afford to give her the money that she needed to stay afloat and still keep my apartment. A good plan, better that I give her the money that I shelled out for rent and move in with her to split the monthly expenses.

My 48-year-old mother, Elizabeth, married for 25 years to my dad, was still grieving over the loss of her beloved husband. With her a bit depressed, understandably, she was as sad as she was lonely. A beautiful redhead with bright, blue eyes, freckles, and huge, double D cup breasts, she's 5' 9" tall and 6' tall with heels. She weighs 145 pounds and has a great ass.

Preferring taller and older women to shorter and younger women, she's the perfect height and age for me. Even though many tall men prefer short and petite women, I don't. Feeling too much like dating a child, I've never been with or attracted to smaller and/or younger women. That's just me. Perhaps, now that my psychiatrist told me that I wanted my mother was the reason why, I'm attracted to taller and older women.

All of my ex-girlfriends were 5' 8" tall and taller, and older. They were all shapely 140 to 160 pounds instead of being unhealthy looking 100 pounds to 120 pounds. I prefer women with meat on her bones. I prefer shapely women with a nice ass to a skinny woman with no ass. Moreover, my personal preference, I'm not attracted to small breasted women. I love tits, especially natural breasts and not the phony creation of what a plastic surgeon thinks what breasts should look and feel like.

All of my ex-girlfriends were busty with naturally endowed breasts. I love women with big breasts and big nipples, the bigger the better. My mother certainly has huge breasts, and from what I've seen from the impressions of her erect nipples through her sheer nightgowns, she has big nipples, too.

# # #

My MILF of a mother, Elizabeth, has natural breasts instead of surgical enhanced breasts filled with silicone. My favorite celebrity women are 49-year-old Christina Hendricks and 51-year-old Sofia Vergara. They both have F cup, triple D cup breasts.

Yet, with nearly every woman in Hollywood having surgically enhanced breasts, I wouldn't be surprised if Christina and/or Sofia had some work done to their breasts, too. They both have even bigger breasts than my mother's double D cup breasts. My perfect women, even with them not as beautiful as Heidi Klum, I'd marry either one of them if I could.

Again, something else that I knew but never admitted to myself, and something else that my psychiatrist told me, no surprise there, I'm attracted to shapely, older women. My excuse is that I usually don't ask a woman her age, or her weight, for that matter. Unable to fool her, Dr. Martin saw through me as if I was naked.

Yes, indeed. She's right. I fully admit it now. Not only am I sexually attracted to my mother but also, my preferred choices in women are shapely, older women with big breasts and nice asses. What's wrong with that? The only fly in the ointment is that I didn't want just any older woman, I wanted my mother.

Instead of being with an immature, dumb broad, I prefer the maturity, the humor, the wisdom, and the commonsense or older women than younger women. My perfect woman, my mother is not only an older woman but also, she's a big breasted redhead. An understatement, her breasts are huge. I love her big tits, the bigger the better. Furthermore, women come to their own sexually between the ages of 40 years old to 60 years old, whereas men sexually mature from the ages of 18 years old to 40 years old. Indeed, older women are my perfect, sexual match.

Yet, if I was to be with an older woman my mother's age, I'd not want to have children. Weighing the pros and cons of an older woman against a younger woman, I'd rather be happy with an older woman than to be unhappy with a younger woman when complicating our relationship with children. Making me feel better by immediately removing my depression, thanks to my psychiatrist for telling me about my mother, my decision was already made. Somehow and some way, yet, unable to say it out loud, I hoped to have forbidden sex with my mother.

'God help me,' I thought. 'I'm more confused now than I was when I sought the help of a psychiatrist.'

# # #

Something my mother did every night before falling asleep, a bad habit to break, she watched television with my father. As soon as I moved in with her, surprising me by her unexpected invitation, she invited me to rest in her bed with her at night while watching television. A dozen sexually inappropriate things went through my horny and twisted mind while in bed with my mother, and none of them were about watching television. A place as morally sacred as it's sexually forbidden, was my mother's bed.

With her bedroom filled with battery powered candles, her bedroom looked more like a holy place, a place that the Dalai Lama and his dedicated minion of Tibetan monks would inhabit. Her king-sized bed was her altar where I prayed that she'd strip me naked and sacrifice me as her sex slave. Yet, trying my best to remove my attraction to my mother and forget what my psychiatrist had said about me wanting her, I had to think about something else. I had to think about baseball.

Seemingly taking the place of my father, with me the pretender to the throne and in bed with the queen of the castle and in the queen's, king-sized bed, I felt out of place. I felt like the joker instead of the prince. I was as nervous as I was sexually excited to rest in bed with my mother in her big bed. My first time in bed with her, I was never allowed into her bedroom before, never mind watching television with her while in bed with her.

Admittedly as any testosterone filled 18-year-old, horny son would who had a MILF of a mother like my mother, I've masturbated over her. I've jerked off over her plenty of times in my younger days while imagining her wearing a sexy nightgown, seeing her in bra and panties, topless, and/or naked. Even now, six years later, and with me 24 years old, my mother is my favorite woman to jerk off over. Yet, with her a modestly moral, church going woman, she'd never allow me to see her without her clothes. She always wore robes over her long, flannel nightgowns.

Nevertheless, back then, with the exhibitionist pervert that I was, I couldn't count how many times that I wanted to deliberately dick flash my mother. I wanted her to catch me masturbating. I wanted to show her my big dick. I wanted her to watch me cum.

I wondered what her reaction to seeing my erect, naked prick. Would she look? Would she stare? Or would she look away in shame and embarrassment and admonish me for deliberately exposing myself to her? If nothing else, imagining dick flashing her gave me more to jerk off over when imagining my mother without her clothes and having sex with me.

Nevertheless, even though I've played with myself while imagining her without her clothes and having sex with her, it's never going to happen. I'd never have sex with my mother. I may be sexually attracted to her, but she's not sexually attracted to me. Moreover, something that she'd never do, she'd never have sex with me. She's my mother. She's not a whore.

Even though we have a close and loving relationship, our love for one another wasn't immorally sexual. When we weren't working, we played cards and board games. While cuddling on the couch, we watched television and movies. With sex forbidden between blood related relatives, she was my mother, and I was her son. I'd never want to ruin our close and loving relationship by trying to bed my mother.

# # #

Yet, with her never much of a drinker before, surprisingly, after my dad died, she started drinking now. Not that having two glasses of white wine made her a candidate for alcohol anonymous, far from it, always in control of her senses, she wasn't a drunk. Yet, it was when she occasionally had that third glass of wine that she became more seductively flirty, lost her inhibitions and, that was when we teased, tickled, wrestled, and flashed one another.

I loved tickling and wrestling with my mother. Able to touch and feel something while making it appear accidental, I've stroked my prick many times after deliberately groping my mother while making my touches and feels seem unintentional. To be honest, and shocked to discover her sexy side, my modestly moral mother was much more fun when she was a little tipsy.

My favorite was playing Marco Polo in the pool with her when she was wearing her bikini. While pretending that my eyes were closed when they were open enough to see her, I felt her ass and grabbed her breasts. With her joining in the fun, she'd grabbed my erection through my bathing suit. I hoped that it would be inevitable that I'd be having sex with my mother one day.

Then, after we emerged from the pool, she undid her top, laid on her stomach, and allowed me to rub sunscreen on her bare back and her long and shapely legs. While waiting for her to stop me, I always felt the sides of her big, exposed breasts. I only wished that I could cup her tits while fingering her nipples.

Then, not stopping with just feeling as much of her breasts as I could, I rubbed sunscreen all the way up her parted legs. Then, again, with her not stopping me, I deliberately slid the back of my hands around her bathing suit clad pussy. I hoped to make my mother as wet as I was hard.

# # #

Suddenly, giving me even more to masturbate over, not being careful how she sat when she was drinking, especially when she crossed and uncrossed her long, shapely legs, she unintentionally flashed me her panties beneath her short skirts. Something more to masturbate over, I loved seeing my mother's sheer, white panties. Then, when she had that third glass of wine, she parted her knees wider and left them open longer. She not only flashed me her panties but also, she flashed me her pussy mound, her camel toe, her pussy slit, and her red patch of trimmed pubic hair through her sheer panties.