Close Knit


“Oh God, he is so funny!”

I watched my mother sit primly—a thick, creamy thigh crossed over the other—in a huge leather recliner that my pop had left behind. She was watching her favorite television show, some corny sitcom on the Lifetime channel, giggling her little heart out at the effeminate male character on the plasma screen. When she laughed, her large, natural breasts jounced slightly behind her blue tank top, her cleavage ample and . . . inviting.

I sucked in a muted breath, my already stiff cock twitching eagerly behind my jeans. Thankfully, the way I seated myself on the sofa—cross-legged, sofa pillow over my lap—hid my arousal. Between my mother’s skirt hiked-up around her upper thighs, and fairly revealing top, the view was wonderful, breathtaking even. And it made sitting in the same room with a television settled on the Lifetime channel all the more tolerable.

Hell, it was the only reason I was in the living room in the first place.

Most guys my age would think me sick for watching my mother the way I did, but I had an excuse. My mother is drop-dead gorgeous. Fiery hair, full natural breasts, plump ass, and an angelic face that would make the most chastest of men run to the bathroom and rub out a good one. Sure, she’d gained some weight over the years, but she’d filled out terrifically. A MILF goddess, thirty-nine and dangerous.

Add that to the fact that she is a retired adult film actress, who has more than five hundred movies under her belt, two hundred in which she starred in. She wasn’t exactly popular, but she had done enough films to get her noticed by practically anyone with a computer and an healthy interest in pornography. Which is probably why she’d told me about her former career when I was fourteen, thinking it best to get the truth out before one of my hornball friends laid it on me. She had apologized for her career choice, and even seemed disgusted with herself—for my sake, perhaps.

But she’d made me more interested than repulsed. And so I had scoured the net for her movies, and eventually found a good scene of her getting drilled by a huge, black cock, her lungs screaming her pleasure, and then getting her face covered in his jizz.

I’ve been anxious to fuck her ever since.

Someone had told me once that my hormones would calm down when I turned eighteen . . . I think they lied to me.

I couldn’t wait any longer. I darted from the living room, making up something regarding forgotten homework when my mother inquired about my sudden haste. I closed my bedroom door—a secure snick satisfying my ears—behind me, my cock throbbing achingly behind my jeans, and made for my computer desk, sliding into my desk chair. My jeans and boxers were removed, sitting in a messy pile on the floor beside me. I loaded up my web browser.

I searched Mom’s on-screen name—Rocksee Dynamite—and clicked on a clip of one of my favorite scenes of her. My mouth welled with anticipation, the engorged head of my cock looking up at me, twitching—anxious. It ached to slip inside of . . . something. Anything. Preferrably the red head appearing on my screen, my own mother. I pulled on a pair of headphones, and turned the volume full blast, wanting to experience every sound with clarity.

The clip went straight into the action. The camera was angled behind Mom, whom was bent over with her face pressed against the carpet. It gave a good view of her bare cunt getting reamed by some guy who mounted her like a dog in heat, sliding his lengthsome cock in her sopping hole.

My hand was already on my own cock, wrapped around its base. I spat, slicking my shaft warm saliva, stroking my palm along my length. My other hand played with my balls, tugging and squeezing, wishing it was Mom’s hot mouth wrapped around them. I let out a slow breath, pleasure fluttering pleasantly in my gut.

“Oooh, fuck me!” Mom said to her on-screen lover, looking up to him. Her long fiery hair was wild, rebellious strands falling over her gorgeous, flushed face.

“Damn . . . mom,” I whispered, my hand pumping faster, my grip growing more firm. I imagined myself in her lover’s place, imagined the feel of her warmth, tight and wet around my cock, imagined my gulping needy breaths, her pale asscheeks a bright red from my constant spanking.

I almost didn’t feel my hips bucking slightly against my hand as I stroked, faster. I spat again, mixing saliva and precum. Mom’s moans grew louder, she seemed to be nearing an orgasm.

“Shit!” I hissed, becoming more excited with each moan, each scream, each filthy little word she growled through clinched teeth. And before I knew it, I came.

Cum spurted upward, splashing against my chest and belly and fingers, the jism warm against my skin. My body moved in spastic motions, my eyes rolled to the back of my skull, staring into darkness. On screen, my mother came as well, squirting all over her lover’s cock. Jealousy twisted in my chest, wishing I could be there to feel her juices splash against my face, into my mouth.

I eventually Kağıthane Escort calmed down, my orgasmic high subsiding. Awareness flooded me, and I shot a look over my shoulder, and my eyes widened with fear.

My door was cracked open.

“Fuck!” I said quietly, jumping up from my chair and searching for a towel. “The hell, I thought I closed the door. I know I did . . .” I glanced at the door a second time. My mother had caught me beating off. I know she did, how else could my door have opened? Finding a towel, I cleaned myself up, and closed my door, again. I knew I should have kept my headphone volume on low, at least low enough to hear someone turning my door knob.

I should have been mortified, but . . . I was excited, instead. Did she run away, embarrassed by what she saw? I thought as I pulled back on my jeans, leaving my boxers on the floor. Or did she stay until I came all over my self?

The latter got my cock good and stiff all over again, and I was ready to go a second round . . . but I did have work to do, though. The college applications weren’t going to apply themselves.

Grinning, I shut down my computer, and went to work on the stack of applications beside my printer. Maybe, just maybe, I could make the most of this awkward, but exciting situation.

“Goodness, Rox, he was just masturbating,” Arianna told me quietly, licking her ice cream cone in a delightfully inappropriate way, getting our table all kinds of looks. Old habits die hard.

“Yeah, to my movie, Ari,” I pointed out, breaking off pieces of my empty waffle cup, dark and flimsy with melted ice cream. I munched on a few pieces, swallowing hard. Shame and guilt teamed up on my stomach, the ice cream in my belly stirring uneasily. “I shouldn’t have told him about my career, even if I am retired now.”

I had peeked into his room three days ago to see if there was anything wrong, as he’d dashed out of the living room in such a hurry after sitting silent throughout the entire evening. He hadn’t heard me open the door, his headphones over his ears. And I’d caught him, stroking himself, with a video of me getting doggyfucked on his computer screen! My maternal instincts screamed for me to storm in, unplug his computer, and toss it out in the street. But I didn’t—couldn’t, frozen by shock and disgrace and intr—

“You know he was going to find out eventually,” Arianna said, thankfully, interrupting my thoughts. I wasn’t too sure if I wanted to finish it. Her platinum blond hair fell in her heart-shaped face. Forty-two, and looked as if she hadn’t aged a day over thirty. She’d yet to feature in a single MILF film. “Better from you than his friends, right?”

“You’re right,” I said, and she was. She was always right.

“What’s the matter with him . . .” Arianna trailed off, making a quick jerking motion with her hand, and finished saying “to your videos, anyway?”

I felt my eyes snap open with surprise, though I shouldn’t have been. I had featured in some pretty freaky scenes in my day, but Arianna had been several times worse. There was a reason why she was—and still is—heralded as the “Queen of Taboo.”

“Because he’s my son?” I almost yelled, the waffle cup crumbling in my startled grasp.

“Haven’t you ever heard of Freedom of Love, Rox?” Arianna said, apparently not bothered by my tone. “Besides, you and I both have done incest films,” she went back to her cone, licking slowly and seductively around her mountain of ice cream.

“But those were fake!” I said as hushed as my frustration would allow.

“But you did say that hearing that guy call you ‘Mom’ turned you on,” Arianna winked, smiling wickedly.

I blushed, lowering my head. I felt my pussy twinge, and images of Zander, my darling son, stroking himself to my videos returned. Fresh and vivid, as if I were peeking into his bedroom all over again.

No, a voice chastised. You can’t think like that, he’s your son!

“How big is his cock . . .?” She asked carefully, but it did her no good.

“Jesus, Ari, it’s my—”

“Son? Yeah, I know. So how big is it?”

“God . . .” I shook my head, wishing I could hide my face in my ample cleavage without getting strange looks. An old man sitting at a table next to us seemed to beg me to do it with his eyes. “I don’t know, Ari . . . he’s probably Peter North big?” I answered, my voice clear with shame and uncertainty. Of course, Arianna’s face brightened.

Christ, I thought. This is such an inappropriate conversation for an Ice Cream shop. Even if we are outside.

“Hot!” She squealed, squirming in her seat.

“Seriously, Ari,” I said, feeling a weak smile creep up the corners of my lips. “I don’t know why I still talk to you.”

“That’s because I bring out your inner sicko,” Ari grinned, slurping up the last bit of her ice cream cone.

Later on that day, I had watched him, again, stroking himself to another one of my videos. It had been one of my early ones, from the 80s, when I was still young and thin, my hair Kağıthane Escort Bayan done up in the classic Farrah Fawcett do. I suddenly felt self-conscious, ashamed of how much I’d let myself go. Arianna had said that my new weight made me look more appealing, more voluptuous, and the amorous stares I still got when I walked in the super market confirmed that.

Zander sat with his back to me, headphones covering his ears, slumped down in his desk chair. He swiveled slightly from right to left while his hand stroked along his engorged length, his mouth slightly agape, eyes fixed on my naked, screwed body on his computer screen.

Who the hell was I kidding? It made me hot. Hotter than the one incestuous scene Arianna and I did all those years ago, hotter than being called “Mom” while my pretend-son plowed my slutty, needy cunt. Because now, I had my own real son, who apparently desired me, stroking his beautiful cock with sweet abandon.

What better opportunity than this? I thought, slipping into his bedroom and creeping up behind him. I became excited, my nipples growing firm, my panties absolutely ruined, the sights and sounds of my baby boy stroking himself unleashing a newfound nastiness within me. All I could think about was shoving that cock of his into my mouth, and showering myself in his cum.

I slowly kneeled, reaching over the back of his chair and snatching off his headphones, whilst swiveling his chair toward me. Horror widened his eyes, every inch of his exposed flesh flushed with shameful crimson. His mouth fell completely open, his chest rising and falling with panic. His hand slackened around his shaft.

I almost backed down, feeling like I had made a grave mistake, but I had gotten this far. There was no sense in turning back. I couldn’t. And so I took him into my hand, his shaft already slick with precum and saliva.

And he froze, as if he’d forgotten to breathe.

I stroked him, his cock slipping easily in my hands.

Finally, he relaxed, though his expression was still one of uncertainty. He moaned as I continued, chewing his bottom lip, looking right scrumptious.

I spat on it, saliva sliding down his head, down my fingers, and onto his balls. I stroked harder, faster, a silent hunger for cock swirling within me. I took him into my mouth, sliding my lips down to his base, feeling his head pulse in the back of my throat. My experience shone through like sunlight through gray skies. He moaned, squirming beneath me. I bobbed on him, his hot length slipping in and out of my mouth, tongue sliding against the underside of his cock. My mouth crested the tip, and I slurped, savoring the bittertang of his precum. The taste shot a an arrow of electricity through my cunt, warm, tingling pleasure exploding into my thighs.

“Mom . . .” He whispered, and my mouth parted from him with a pop, a string of saliva connecting us. The word did wonders on my nerves. “I’m . . .”

I knew what was coming, and I lifted my coral tank top half-way, thankful that I was bra-less. I’d get to try one of my famous tricks on him. My son watched me with half-closed eyes, he watched me pull my shirt over his cock, felt his cock slip in-between his horny mother’s tits, and watched the bulbous, purpling head of his cock peek up in my cleavage.

I jounced my tits on his cock, squeezing them together, my eyes watching his tongue slide over his lips, his eyebrows drawn together. He bucked his hips against me, both of his hands tangled in his dark hair.

“Fuck!” He moaned, discretion abandoned.

“You’re going to come all over your mommy’s tits, hm? Gonna cover me in your fucking jizz?” I bounced harder, feeling a sharp twinge in my pussy. My pussy throbbed, and I could feel my juices trickle hotly down my thighs.

“Damn . . . ma . . .”

“Come all over these tits, Zander. Come all over your mama’s filthy fucking tits!”

And before long he’d spurted, ropes of thick, hot cum stringing against my neck, my chin, my tits. Lovely. His body jerked, pleasure jolting his hips upward, the underside of his cock hot against the curve of my neck.

I rose to my feet, smoothing a finger along my cum-slick cleavage, and sucked off his sperm. I saw his cock twitch, his lips sucking in a sharp breath, and I felt my mouth grin, accomplished. I turned, and padding bare feet out of his bedroom, giving him my best walk.

“Oh God, yes,” I heard him say quietly. I shook my head.

This was merely the beginning.

“I might rent some movies tonight. Anything you’re interested in seeing?” Mom asked as I appeared in the kitchen door way, flipping through a gossip magazine. She appeared to be only half-interested in its pages. She sat in the living room, shifting slightly in her place on the loveseat.

“Probably anything with Adam Sandler in it,” I replied, drying my hands with a hand towel—I had been in the middle of washing dishes. Leaning against the door frame, I draped the towel over my shoulder and folded my arms.

Golden Escort Kağıthane late-morning sunlight spilled through drawn windows, Mom basking in its warmth, her fiery mane blazing. She dressed simply, a soft green blouse and a pair of denim jeans, her pretty feet slipped into a pair of green heels. It was simply amazing how she could make something so simple look so damn . . . sexy. Especially the way her jeans fit around her voluptuous legs, as if they were painted on, and like most of her blouses, this one had revealed her milky, plentiful cleavage.

“You know, I think I could go for a Sandler movie myself,” she nodded approvingly, a slow smile creasing her lips. She was placid, serene, like she usually was on a Saturday, and it bothered the living hell out of me.

I couldn’t understand how she did it—act so casual, so natural. As if just last week she had not slipped into my bedroom while I obliviously stroked myself to videos of her when she was involved in the adult industry. As if she hadn’t taken my cock into her hot, cock-starved mouth, felt it slide easily between her breasts, felt my cum splash against her creamy skin—tits and neck and chin. As if our little venture had been nothing more than a dream, a gratifyingly vivid dream.

She caught me staring, her calm expression melting into a quizzical mask. She closed her magazine on her lap, the motion strangely sensual. The concern was clear in her eyes, and I could sense the fear bleeding through her peaceful air, forming around her like an oppressive rain cloud. I then realized that her serenity was counterfeit, her casualness put on. She must have been trying to keep things normal between us since our little escapade. I couldn’t blame her.

Might be why we haven’t done anything since then, I thought. Or maybe it was a dream, and I’m just going out of my fucking mind!

“What’s wrong, hun?” She asked carefully, trying to sound as casual as possible, failed.

I padded bare feet into the living room, and plopped beside her on the loveseat. She smelled wonderfully—vanilla and honey—and my fingers ached to touch her skin, to explore every inch of it, inside and out. I felt my cock grow good and stiff, strangled behind my jeans and boxer briefs. I took a deep breath.

“Of course,” I said, finally, “you know that I watch your videos online sometimes—well, all the time.” She paused, but then nodded hesitantly, her expression uncertain.

I continued. “And, well, the thing we did last week . . .” I trailed off, almost unconscious of my hand smoothing around her denim-clad thigh. She tensed, sucking in a quick breath, but then relaxed, her copious chest falling slowly. “I really want to do it again, and obviously you do, too.”

I noticed her mouth perk up slightly at the corners, an easy smile, as if she’d been waiting for me to say something—anything, to let her know that she wasn’t a terrible mother, that what we had done the previous week was not a mistake.

And she was on me within a blink’s time, her tongue up against my neck and around my ear, her right hand cupped around my aching bulge. Her touch flushed my skin with heat, coating my every nerve with electricity. She had breached my jeans, unbuttoned and unzipped, and now my cock was in her tiny hands, her fingers barely reaching around my throbbing shaft.

“Good,” she whispered, her breath hot against my skin, sending waves of goose flesh through my body. “Because I want you,” she continued, “and I want this big . . . fucking . . . cock.” Her grip grew firm, and I felt my cock twitch, threatening to erupt. She pressed smiling lips against the curve of my neck, and I exhaled a silent breath.

She’d easily slipped into porn star mode.

Mom rose with liquid motion onto her heels, standing before me like a supervillainess with her hip cocked to one side, her hands creeping toward the hem of her blouse. Slowly, she began lifting her top, revealing her soft tummy, her green mesh and lace bra that seemed to struggle to contain her monstrous breasts—36DD according to one of her fansites. Letting her blouse fall from her delicate fingers, her jeans were next, and she turned and bent over as she slowly peeled them from around her ass—plump and shapely—my eyes catching a glimpse of her bare slit. Christ, she wore no panties, the fact resulting abuse for my lower lip, my teeth pressing anxiously into it. A moment later, she was stepping out of her jeans, turning as she reached to undo her bra.

She stalked toward me, her steps slow and sultry, determined. She stepped over her bra once it fell from her shoulders, her full, pendulous breasts exposed, hard pink nipples seeming to beckon his fingers, his mouth. She was absolutely gorgeous, stunning in her rubenesque glory. She reminded me of a Goddess, caught in late-morning sunshine.

I didn’t take long for me to get undressed as she approached, my clothes piled messily on the cushion beside me. My cock twitched something fierce, its ripe and engorged head dripping precum.

“Mmmm,” she uttered as she kneeled before my seated form, as if she’d been offered a feast. “Look at that big fucking cock . . . it can’t wait to get inside of mommy’s pussy, huh?” She teased, inching closer between my legs, her heavy breasts brushing against my inner thighs. It was a good thing I wasn’t standing.

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