It started with; no wait, that's not right, it didn't start with tacky magazine personality tests, but it was rekindled by them.
My brain is the brain of a human male; on days when I'm not having sex, and usually also on days when I am having sex, my brain fantasises and schemes about having sex. When favourite fantasies would need a refresh; when visions of the girl sitting opposite me on the bus with her cherry red lip-sticked lips wrapped around my cock were becoming blaze, when watching my cock pump punishingly into Paris Hiltons pale pink ass was just another cum fest, when dreams of lesbian twins taking turns riding me while they licked each other to orgasm were dreary old re-runs, on days when my self-stroking hand wanted to test the boundaries of taboo, I would imagine the lover gripping my cock was my mother.
These were images living only in the arousal of masturbation; there was no waking thought of making them real. I had no intention of making moves on her like I occasionally tried with those girls sitting opposite on the bus; that is until those tacky magazine personality tests came into my life.
You know the type, there's an advert on the front cover that says 'Take the test in our sealed section - Do you like a lucky licky or do prefer a tricky dicky.' Or a cover that says 'Page sixty-nine has our exclusive quiz - Discover you hidden passions, find out what really turns you on.'
I found out my mother was a junky for those quizzes. She wouldn't just tick the box for A B or C, she would write expansive comments in the margins. I suppose it was some sort of therapy for her; when you're not getting it the way you want it, release your feelings by writing them down. I read and absorbed her hundreds and hundreds of answers in dozens and dozens of magazines. And it made me want mom for real.
It wasn't that she'd said anything about me, or gave any hints that incest might be acceptable, or anything else that might lead you to say to say things to yourself. "Aha, now I see why reading those responses would make a man decide to fuck his mother."
No, there was none of that in them, it was just that here was a woman's sexuality opened up to me; here was a woman answering candidly how she liked the taste of pre-cum more than cum itself, how she preferred sex on a bed with lots of, as she called it, the four T's (talking, teasing, and tender touching), how she confessed that she hadn't had an orgasm for 3 years because her partner Rick (she would put a lower case 'p' in front of his name when she referred to him) was just a slam bam bastard man who would hold the back of her head till he came and who refused to ever lick her, and how she took solace in her Jacuzzi. "I don't know what it is about them but whoever I'm with or if I'm alone or even if I'm with pRick, I've never ever been in a Jacuzzi and not felt turned on, even when we are not touching I feel so sexy."
I remember the first time I read that comment about the Jacuzzi; yes I read her answers more than once, I read them till I could memorise them. I would take her magazines away once a fortnight.
"For the office recycling program mom, I put them straight in the shredder and it helps the environment they reckon."
I'd replace them with ones that I'd personally selected for their sex questionnaires.
"They're from the front office mom, the girls there don't want them anymore."
When I first read her comments about that Jacuzzi I couldn't help that the next time I went to her place I took a walk down to her bedroom and through to the en-suite. I just stood in the doorway looking at the Jacuzzi with a thousand visions growing in my head and an erection growing in my pants.
And then Rick the pRick sabotaged the Jacuzzi and she asked me to take a look to see if I knew why it had stopped working.
She asked me on a Friday and I turned up the following Thursday lunchtime. In the days and nights in between, my brain had turned my masturbating hand into every orifice of my mothers' body, but despite all this I couldn't convince myself of any pick-up line that would actually work. I formed a rudimentary plan and decided that although there was no believable end-game to the plan, at the very least I might achieve the basis of few good future jerks.
I arranged for the afternoon off work and turned up in the heat of the day with a bag of tools and a cold bottle of champagne.
"It's in case I get lucky today mom, the champagne is for you. If I get this thing going you'll want a nice cool drink to sip while you're relaxing in the tub."
"Awww but that's so sweet, you're doing all the work, I should be giving you something."
I didn't say it, but I thought it in a thousand different words. "Give me your body and we'll call it even." As I thought it, I took in as much of her body with my eyes as I could; you never know, there may be something in all those body language and thought transfer mumbo jumbos, I knew I'd need at the help I could get.
I kept her with me; talking and chatting, while I worked away. It took me two seconds to confirm her suspicions that pRick really had sabotaged the thing; the stupid prick had removed a safety fuse. I pretended to work away on all sorts of complex fixes for the next half an hour or more, getting her to hold parts in place like she was helping out, my hand holding hers in place.
"Here, hold it like this, gee your hands are nice and warm, that's good that's a nice grip, but don't damage those pretty fingers."
All the while steering the small talk to where I wanted it to go; which was where those quizzes told me she'd want it to go if it was her lover chatting her up.
