“Dude, you know who I would really like to fuck?”
“Anyone who moves, I imagine.”
“True. But do you know who is the most constant late-night focus of my daily stroke-fest sessions?”
“Beth, the head cheerleader?”
“She’s in the top five, no doubt.”
“Well, who would be number one then?”
“Promise you won’t judge?”
“No, you do some crazy shit; so do I.”
“Seriously, this is really embarrassing.”
“Fine, I promise not to ridicule you too badly.”
“That’s not so bad. I was expecting Big Bertha or Old Woman Burgess. First, your Mom is ridiculously hot and second, I’ve stroked about my Mom lots of times.”
“Of course, and my Mom is nowhere as hot as your Mom.”
“So it doesn’t make me a freak?”
“Oh, it makes you a freak all right. It even makes you a perverted little freak. But hey, at our age every guy is a perverted little freak. Christ, even Hamlet was supposed to have a thing for his Mother. Remember the Ophelia song? ‘Ah, ah, when I was young, I, I should’ve known better.’ He’s got to be singing about his Mom!”
Anyway the point is simple. The older I got the more obsessed I became with the thought of sleeping with my Mother. My fantasies shifted from cheerleaders and hot blondes to my forty-three-year-old, blue-eyed, chestnut-brown-haired Mother with the big tits.
As far as calming me down she wasn’t any help, either. She was a real estate agent and always dressed in skirts, hose and heels. All three of which had become fetishes of mine, probably because I’d grown up seeing them worn on the hottest woman I knew. I was sixteen when I started giving my Mom foot massages after a hard day at work. She always kept her stockings on and my cock always rose whenever her stocking-clad legs were resting on my lap. She had to know what it was doing to me, but she never let on and it never progressed any further than a son giving his Mother a respectful foot massage, at least not outside my own fevered brain.
Mom knew she was still hot. She flirted with my friends and loved the compliments they threw back at her. She was a MILF and she knew it, she even revelled in it. That said, I never thought I’d ever have the chance to do more than just her feet…but then that Halloween happened.
Every Halloween my parents would get dressed up as a sexy matching couple and go to some big party. (Mom was sexy anyway, speaking as a hetero guy I don’t think there’s anything a man can do to look sexy.) Every year I could see their excitement growing for the big day; Mom’s creative juices always came alive for Halloween. She always designed and made the two costumes, often starting months in advance. I can’t recall all the outfits but do remember a few recent ones: Bonnie and Clyde with Mom dressed as a hot flapper (Mom looked stunning in fishnets and the cute bob haircut with her toy tommy gun and an evil grin ready to shoot someone’s balls off), Fred and Wilma Flintstone, which had my dick thinking Bam Bam all night (Mom as Wilma with her tattered neck- and hemlines with almost a nipple and almost her naughty bits showing was memorialised in a photo still hidden under my bed for stroke sessions), her fifties icons Marilyn Monroe and James Dean (which I also have a picture of hidden for play time), and last year she was Princess Leia while Dad was Luke Skywalker (her diaphanous, almost transparent white dress with no underwear that year kept my light sabre erect for months). This year they were going as Beauty and the Beast. As always, Mom refused to reveal her costume to anyone until Halloween Eve, if that phrase isn’t redundant.