Lot of people are probably wondering how I came to view my mom sexually. Did I catch her masturbating, like in so many stories? Or did she catch me masturbating? My answer is that there was no one event that triggered my attraction to her. I simply never differentiated between females inside and outside my family and no one ever told me I should. I doubt most parents give their kids the birds-and-bees talk and end by saying “But you can’t do it with relatives.”
I think I have a more diverse taste in women than most men. I of course have a strong appreciation for the young, big-boobed, slender women that the advertising industry loves but I can get off just as easily thinking of women of all sorts of age groups and body types. My Mom, while not one of the absurd supermodel MILFs you’ll find in so many fictional stories, has aged better than most women her age and once even got carded for buying alcohol. She’s a short woman (I was taller than her by my freshman year of high school) with chin-length black hair and pale skin. She’s round but not fat and has small B-cup breasts. But her best part is her ass, whose bulging roundness is obvious even in the loosest skirts and pants.
It’s hard to pinpoint the moment I realized that I loved my mother as more than just a mother. It was in my teen years when my desire for her became physical as well as emotional but I feel like I loved her for my entire life. When I left for college, I missed her so much that my love for her grew tenfold. When I came home for holidays, I started sharing her bed again because being with her just felt so comfortable and right. Sometimes I would snuggle up to her as she slept, letting go only when I got an embarrassing erection. I’d wake up early and go to the bathroom or shower just so that I could have the chance to jack off. Sometimes, if it was real early and my willpower was especially weak, I’d hold up the comforter with my left hand and masturbate with my right while watching my mother sleeping beside me. Afterwards, I’d lay in bed blushing, praying that I hadn’t woken her.
My love for my mother had but one obstacle: my father. I hated him. He wasn’t abusive or neglectful, just cold and stern to both me and my mom. He simply didn’t love us. On the rare occasions he showed emotion, it was to throw a temper tantrum over the silliest little things. Even on things he should have been angry about, like a bad grade, he completely overreacted. He’d lock himself up in his study and Mom would lock herself up in her room. When I was young and stupid, I would try to go into my father’s study and try to calm him down, only to be shouted at and thrown out. I soon realized that my time was better spent comforting my mother. I wouldn’t say much but the clichéd “It’s all right.” My mother would lie down with my and hug me for hours.
As I got older, Mom was more willing to discuss her feelings with me. We’d lay down together and stay up for hours, with her confiding in me her frustration and unhappiness with her husband. As I held her, she whispered, “If he didn’t have the better job, I think I would divorce him.”
“Would you look for a new husband?” I asked.
“I don’t know. He’d have to be a decent, loving man,” she whispered back.
“Like me?” I asked jokingly.
“You? You’d want to be your old mom’s husband?”
My heart skipped a beat. I had almost revealed my secret incestuous fantasies! In a tone that I hoped was still light and joking, I answered, “Sure, why not? Would you like to be my wife?”