14. Mother-Son Tribulations / From Mom's Perspective (1)
I returned to my room, collapsed onto the bed, and fell asleep. When I opened my eyes, the sun was already high in the sky. Wondering if last night with Mom had been a dream, I checked my crotch—there it was, my cum mixed with Mom's pussy juices, crusted over, clear evidence of our forbidden fuck.
I finally fucked Mom. And she wanted it too.
But something uneasy lingered about our relationship, preventing me from just basking in the joy. After guiding me into her with her own hand, Mom had greedily devoured my cock, moaning lewdly and writhing to milk my cum—only to shove me away coldly at the end. I couldn't make sense of it.
Mom had clearly shattered the walls of taboos blocking us as mother and son, stepping through into a world of love and pleasure. Or had I missed something? Pondering, I headed to the living room.
But Mom, who was usually there, was nowhere in sight. The house was so quiet I could hear the hum of the appliances. Thinking she'd stepped out, I tried the master bedroom door—it caught on something, the handle wouldn't turn. First time ever. We never locked doors at home...
A vague anxiety rising, I knocked and called for Mom. No answer. My unease growing, dark thoughts swirling, I grabbed the master key and jimmied the door open.
Thank God, Mom was fine—except for her puffy, swollen eyes. She looked exhausted, like she'd just woken up at my sudden entrance. The sheets we'd soiled last night were fresh, and she was in clean clothes, as if she'd showered overnight.
I climbed onto the bed to talk, approaching her side, but she turned away slightly, as if avoiding me, not even glancing over. It was absurd, infuriating, heartbreaking. Yesterday she'd been so happy in my arms, her beautiful body melting in ecstasy against me—and now this? The mental blow hit hard, but rationally, I needed answers from her.
"Mom, you sick? Or did I do something wrong? Huh?"
"No, I'm just tired. Go out."
She brushed off my question with fatigue as an excuse and shooed me away again. My temper flared.
"Doesn't seem like it. What's the problem? Tell me—I can help, Mom."
"I said no!... Just go..."
Her second shout since last night. Convinced talk was pointless, I left the room.
"...At least don't lock the door, Mom. You're worrying me."
In the kitchen, I chugged cold water, cooling my heated head. Then I recalled her glimpse of an expression—filled with regret and self-loathing. Was Mom regretting last night? Why? I'd gotten her consent; she'd welcomed me, starting our new mother-son bond. Or was it all my delusion? No way. Why else would her hand guide my cock to her pussy?
My brain spun, on the verge of exploding, until the conclusion hit: Whatever the reason, Mom regrets it now. And our hard-won relationship is in jeopardy.
My heart plummeted; dizziness hit. Stumbling to the sofa, I lay down as random thoughts assaulted me, culminating in the fear that everything with Mom was over.
What if, like some cliché porn story, Mom pretends it never happened and wants to go back to being just normal mom and son? What if her 'help' stops? What if she just goes to Dad in Hong Kong?
One bad thought spawned chains of worse ones, filling my head. Breathing felt impossible, seeing pointless, living hollow.
Slap!
Like Dad once scolding my drunk ass, my hands smacked both cheeks hard. The stinging pain cleared the fog of worries.
If there's a problem, solve it. Worrying doesn't fix shit.
Regaining composure, I showered, then prepped porridge for Mom and me. I have to help her unload whatever's burdening her.
I carried steaming bowls on a tray to the master bedroom after cooling them. Door closed but unlocked. Knocking, I entered—Mom lay on her side, back to me.
"Mom, I made porridge. Eat a spoonful at least—you'll hurt yourself otherwise."
I set the tray on the bedside table, did dishes and vacuumed, fighting my sagging mood. An hour later, hoping she'd eaten, I checked. Good—she'd taken a few bites; two-thirds left.
...
Days passed tending to Mom—not quite nursing, but close. With school starting in a week, urgency gnawed, but I stayed steadfast by her side. Thankfully, from day two she looked at me again, and by this morning, the shadow on her beautiful face had mostly lifted.
One odd thing: whenever I stared, her face flushed and she'd turn away.
Judging a talk possible, that evening I served dinner and bared my heart.
"Mom, I don't regret the love we shared at all. It was a dream come true—I'm so happy. I hope you don't regret it either."
She listened silently. No reply. I squeezed her hand tight before leaving.
That night, my phone buzzed with a notification.
From here on, it's the story from Mom's perspective.
My precious son heading to the army had broken my heart, aching with sadness. But his discharge—tall, muscular, manlier than ever—felt reassuring, like he'd shed his boyish ways. With him home, I thought our harmonious family life would continue.
Then Dad's sudden Hong Kong assignment. I wanted to beg him to cancel, knowing how tough a choice it was for our devoted family man. Instead, before he left, I clung to him daily, sating my body that would endure a month of abstinence.
Dad flew off, leaving just son and me. Massaging him, feeling his firm muscles, I realized my boy's all grown up. But not just that had grown.
His touches grew bolder post-Dad—morning and night backhugs, his massive cock—like a club—probing my ass crack. His manly scent fueled it; with three weeks till Dad's return, my body ignited too easily.
Already aroused, his massaging hands sparked sexual thrill—an embarrassing plight. Then Dad's call: three more months away. Despair.
That night, I fingered my pussy desperately, trying to quench the blaze. Masturbation eased my body but left aching emptiness.
It escalated—more frequent, fiercer daily.
One day, seeking him for yoga, I entered his room to his jerking off. First, his massive cock seized my eyes—rivaling Dad's size and shape, veins bulging more masculinely. No trace of the cute little dick from bath times; pure stud meat.
Stunned by his naked lower half and stroking, I tried to leave—but our eyes met. Feigning calm to cover for him as Mom, I entered. His honest confession, tormented expression, raging cock, and my own tormenting lust intertwined. Under the pretext of helping, I gripped and jerked his cock, even promising more.
Learning he lusted for me as a woman heated my body further. Blowjobs followed, me deluding myself look but don't touch. Then the pre-semester staff seminar booze undid me.
Body still buzzing from sucking him, alcohol amplified it. Men's leering eyes on my voluptuous form, burning throat, absent husband—resentment—I drank till blackout.
Fragmented memories: car, home, bed. Then dream—Dad eating my pussy. Long-denied pleasure, juices flowing, I squirted in ecstasy.
Breath steadying, pulling up "Dad's" face—blurry vision cleared to my son's! Not a dream. Dizzy horror: he'd eaten the pussy I'd guarded so fiercely.
His kisses, his thick cock jabbing my crotch. Clumsy but desperate tongue in my mouth—I parted lips instinctively. Moments later, his cockhead prodding my entrance—I twisted away repeatedly in panic.
My raging heat, he's already eaten it—no one knows whispering instincts, son's pleas overwhelmed reason.
That night, my hand guided his cock into my pussy. His meat filling my cunt and throat drew lewd moans; I took three loads.
After the last, collapsing—body sated from long-craved fullness, but emotions plummeted: I gave my son my pussy.
Dad's face flashed; guilt as the mom who ravaged her innocent boy. Tears welled—I shoved him out, sobbing quietly. But no tears changed the fact.
I felt filthy, slutty—society's damning gaze on our incest terrified me. Yet sheets' stains made my heart race at his cock and pleasure.
Self-loathing, I stripped the bed, showered off traces, slept at dawn.
...
Morning, couldn't face his entering eyes. Shame aside, seeing him recalled that huge cock—fearing my lusty body's reaction. Lashing out at innocent him felt ugly.
Yet his worried care over three days melted negativity; I could look again.
But gazing at his face evoked pounding thrusts, twitching pussy, blushing heat. Sorry, son—Mom's such a slut...
His sincere evening confession after days of tossing kept me up till late. Finally, I admitted: I love my son as a man. Leading my boiling lust, I headed to his room.