My Last Summer with Mom

This is a work of fiction, intended as a sexual fantasy. The behavior in this story is not condoned or encouraged by the author. All sexual activity is engaged in by characters of legal age.

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Mom/Son - Incest - Taboo - Long Story - Buildup - Edging - Teasing - Slow Burn - Coercion - Guilt - Giving In - Love - Straight Sex - Hand Job - First Time - Kinky Mom - Graphic Sex

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CHAPTER 3

The weather started to cool off and we opened all the windows. This was my favorite time of year--still warm, but cool enough during the day that sleep was deep and restful. Mom began working nights as the busy season slowed down, so she wouldn't get home until 11pm or so. By then I was often in bed, lying in just my shorts without a blanket, feeling the evening breeze waft through my room and listening to the choir of peeper frogs from the pond down the hill.

I found myself noticing Mom a lot more. We'd always been close, but I never really paid attention to her body until now. People always told me she was beautiful, but that always just sounded like something people said. Now I noticed it for myself. Mom was tall for a woman, almost as tall as I was. Her eyes were brown, with crinkles on the edges from all the time she spent smiling. Her hair was long and dark and straight without a touch of gray in it, and her back was muscled from hard work. I didn't know much about breasts, but hers filled out her bras and bikini tops in a way that made them bounce delightfully when she walked. Her sweep of her hips formed a gentle curve into her ass, and her legs were strong and long and tan. She was stunning. I'd just never noticed.

Mom's room was across the hall from mine, and the nights I went to bed before she got home I started leaving my door open a crack and pretending to be asleep when she arrived. I would hear the front door slam and she'd walk wearily back to her room, and I saw her peek through my door before vanishing into her room and letting the door swing behind her. She usually closed it most of the way over, but occasionally it would hit the door jamb and bounce open. When it did, I'd catch a glimpse of her in there, stepping into her sweatpants and putting her hair in a bun.

I began obsessively wondering what she looked like under her bra. I liked looking at her breasts, but what shape were they actually? Did they have regular nipples just like my chest did? Also, what did she look like under her pants? The closest I ever got to finding out was one time when she and Dad were still married, I saw her dart from their room to grab them both beers when she thought I was sleeping and I caught a glimpse of a very small pair of lace panties underneath one of my dad's T-shirts. A strip of hair was visible through them, but nothing more. Even that was startling. I knew men had hair on their bodies, but hers was so smooth and hairless that I hadn't seen that coming. Something about it excited me, though.

She didn't bathe me again, but that didn't stop me from replaying the scene over and over in my mind. Sometimes as I was drifting off to sleep, I would touch myself thinking about it. My penis would swell and get hard but it never got as hard as it got from just a few brushes with her hands. One time I washed myself and I felt my body begin to tighten and there were a few involuntary twitches and spasms in my abdomen, which terrified me and I stopped. For a few days after that I felt a full, hard feeling inside me that wouldn't go away, not entirely dissimilar to the way a full bladder felt, but much deeper and more aching.

So now I just laid in bed while she was gone, touching myself, thinking of Mom washing me. Sometimes, on rare occasions, I would think of my friend Bailey who was a year older than me and who I'd once seen changing, but hadn't caught a glimpse of anything significant. But it was mostly Mom.

It was Sunday night and I was lying in bed in absolutely nothing, thinking about Bailey's freckled face and taut, slender shape and aimlessly touching myself while I started to doze off. The day had been hot and the night air refused to move, so kept sliding in and out of a restless doze and every time I woke up, my cock was thick and hard in my hand. I would stroke it gently and my mind would relax again, slouching into thoughts of Bailey's mouth on mine, the way her hair smelled, the way her butt had looked as she got changed. Those thoughts seamlessly melted into thoughts of Mom, standing in her room, adjusting her bra..

... I startled awake again, only this time a shadow moved from my doorway.

There was a soft glow of light from the kitchen.

Mom was home.

Even though it was stifling in my room, I grabbed my sheet and dived under it. I could hear the blood pounding in my ears.

I don't know how long I hid under there, but I heard the old hardwood floor snapping and popping as she milled around, and then I heard her soft footsteps steadily move down the hall and into her room. The door creaked slightly. Her shower started and I heard her step into it.

I peeked above the sheet. Her door was wide open, which usually meant she thought I was sleeping. Maybe she hadn't seen me after all. Since today was the last day this week before her two days off, she had a one-track mind when she got home: shower, wine, couch.

I chanced a better look into her room. Her bedside lamp was on, illuminating her vanity, which was the only thing I could see from this angle. Mardi Gras beads hung on the side of it from a trip she and her friends had gone on a decade ago.

The shower handle squeaked and I heard the water shut off. I smelled her shampoo as her bathroom door creaked, and then she was standing in front of the vanity in a towel, brushing her hair. Her phone was somewhere nearby, probably on her bed, playing "The Ghost Song" by Jim Morrison and The Doors. Mom always laughed at that song but she said it made her feel young when she listened to it.

I couldn't stop staring. I'd seen her in a towel so many times, but she'd always been Mom. A fixture. The person who scolded me when I left the milk out and who wouldn't let me have a smartphone. But now she was a woman, the beautiful woman everyone but me saw; who was still young and playful and fun-loving. I felt an ache in my abdomen that I'd never felt before.

As she brushed her hair, I saw her hips moving to the music and suddenly it was hard between my legs. Really hard, harder than it had been since the night of the bath. I was completely taken by surprise--I had stopped touching myself and nobody else had been touching me either. But I was entranced by the movement of her body. I could see the curves or her ass moving underneath the towel and my mouth suddenly became sticky and dry.

The song finished and another one started. Mom didn't want to listen to that one so I saw her lean over to grab her phone off the bed and change it.

As she did, the towel slipped onto the floor and I was suddenly staring at her, completely naked, from the back.

My heart did a roller coaster loop and the hardness between my legs strained. I only got the briefest glimpse, but it branded itself into my mind like a photograph.

The muscles in her back flexed, and I caught sight of the sides of her breasts, which bounced deliciously as she moved. I saw tantalizingly little of them, but I could tell they were bigger than I thought and they moved far more freely than I expected them to. Her ass was thick and round and since her legs were spread, my eyes darted to see if I could catch a glimpse of what was between them. No luck; the shadows cast by her leg and ass shrouded it in darkness. Her right leg planted on the floor and as she leaned, her left leg lifted off the floor and her toe pointed gracefully.

With a single, quick movement, she grabbed the phone off her bed and with the other snatched the towel off the floor and wrapped it around herself.

And then she looked.

Directly at me.

All the blood in my body turned to ice needles and I gasped audibly. Mom stood with the towel around herself looking at me, a motionless statue in the darkness.

I stared directly back, completely unable to move. I heard the hiss of blood.

Mom walked slowly up to the bedroom door and quietly closed it.

I sat still, in the stifling hot darkness for a long time. Mom's phone faintly played "The Wild Life" by Slaughter and I heard her singing along to it. She had a nice voice and I always liked hearing her sing, but my brain couldn't process that now.

I finally looked down at my lap. I was still hard, and my cock was slick with clear fluid that had apparently been seeping out of me for the entire incident. Mortified, I dove underneath the sheet.

After what felt like a decade, Mom's bedroom door opened and I heard her footsteps stop briefly at my door, and heard the clatter of a box fan as she set it in the doorway and switched it on. Even through the sheet, the breeze was a relief.

I fell asleep to the sounds of the TV and had bizarre, sexually charged Family Feud dreams all night.