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When I first wrote about my desires and experiences I had to give a qualification that I was reporting the truth and therefore it was not hardcore porn but titillation at most. Some would find it dull, others disgusting, few (I thought) would find it sexually exciting. However many seemed to like reading about it and I now have online exchanges with like-minded people, perhaps surprisingly not all men. So for those who missed it first time round I repeat my original confessions as “Part 1” below. For those who are interested only in my more recent experience then skip to Part 2.
The following is not a story but a truthful account. Life is rarely as perfect as fiction and we have to make do. So at the outset I warn you that this is all quite tame, nothing to get too exercised about so don’t expect major hardcore, just the truth. Funnily enough, when reading erotica I prefer a realistic account of something mundane that genuinely happened rather than a more spicy fictional account – I usually find it more exciting that way; because it’s true then it’s believable and believable is more fun, well for me anyway. Don’t read on if you disagree.
Like many (even like most, I imagine) people I used to be revolted by the thought of my parents having sex or anything like that – I realised they were entitled to, of course, but the idea just turned me off as did the very notion of anything sexual to do with my Mum.
As a teenager in the 1970’s if I was masturbating (which I frequently was) any interruption such as Mum shouting up the stairs to me or passing across my view if I was wanking about the woman next door from my bedroom window was a guaranteed cock-softener. Not that Mum was revolting or anything, she was just a plain mummy-type, about 5’6”, size 12, 36B/C boobs (I’ve since seen her bra-labels and assume they’ve not grown), pleasant face (but never any make-up – quite old-fashioned in that respect), delicate feminine hands, nice enough legs (never trousers, always knee-length skirts and dresses) rarely bare-legged but always wore tights by that age, stockings when I was younger (although oddly she has gone back to wearing stockings occasionally – probably a personal comfort thing). She was and is a genuinely nice, kind, loving, shy, modest woman – almost completely selfless in her behaviour, I know nobody even close to her kindness.
As to the turn-off, I guess it was just that she was my mother and I her son, so why would I feel anything other than that? It was the “correct “order of things, the way things “ought” to be and I was inexperienced with plenty of other new stuff to explore sexually.
For reasons too long to go into here (and of no interest) I knew her to be almost entirely disinterested in sex – my father went short for years. Yet she was not illiberal in her attitudes -always happy to enlighten me about growing-up things like women having periods, sanitary towels, the so called facts of life, how to treat my first and subsequent girl-friends – I’d always confide in her rather than my Dad whom I loved deeply but found more of an authoritarian figure. Mum was more on my level, so to speak – but I certainly didn’t fancy her at all.
Yet about 6 months after my Dad died (by then she was 65 and I was 40, married with a family) when I got bored of the usual wanking subjects (women at work, my mother in law, friends and so on) I found myself occasionally fantasising about having sex with her. I would masturbate about her, ignoring the revulsion (and it was still revolting to me) just to have something different to climax about; I’d enjoy the orgasm but then feel wholly revolted with myself again afterwards (typical man, shoot and lose interest), thinking I’d never do it again. But I did do it, more and more often and it stopped revolting me and began to genuinely appeal rather than just be a novelty.
I still didn’t “fancy” her in the accepted sense. She’s no GILF like say Joan Collins, just a plain old granny – a bit stooped, a little shorter than she used to be and of slight build, quite frail from arthritis, with swollen ankles lots of the time, shortish grey hair and of course wrinkles. Despite her slight frame she still has pert-looking boobs of some size although this is only apparent from the side because she still dresses conservatively, still never trousers and still no make-up. That said I do quite fancy much older women (70’s, even 80’s – for instance I’d definitely fuck my mother in law although she’s a bit more presentable even at her age) but not my Mum – she’s simply not attractive in that way. If I had to make a comparison I’d say Mum is quite like Grandma Walton (Google her pic if you’re too young to remember The Waltons TV program), not facially but in build and overall appearance including a quite prudish dress sense (albeit not 1920’s hillbilly!). I guess the turn-on was the taboo aspect – not just a pensioner but my own mother and here I was regularly emptying my balls about her.
If I’m honest I guess there could halkalı escort have been some bullying going on too, or some personal inadequacy on my part – you know the score: slightly dominant father dies; I take my chance to wreak revenge by dominating (in fantasy) “his” woman. I don’t know this to be the case, I certainly don’t consciously feel resentful towards my Dad – I loved him, still do. I’m just trying to be honest (as I say, more exciting that way) and admit the possibility it could be some subliminal neurosis of mine rather than just the fact I’m a dirty bastard.
Anyway, in the months after Dad died I even found myself occasionally talking with her in all sorts of very mildly flirtatious ways – how I’d found her attractive when I was going through puberty (an utter lie as you now know) and how I’d come home from school and try to spy on her naked in the bath (I hadn’t – well, I did try just once and failed – to my subsequent relief at the time!) and how I’d masturbated about her as part of my growing-up (in fact I said “I enjoyed myself about you… if you know what I mean?” – she did know what I meant, as I’ve said, we can talk like that). But it was all untrue, I’d done none of those things. I told her she’d worn well for her age – bluntly she hadn’t worn at all well but it sort of tied in with the rest of what I was saying so there seemed no harm in saying it.
These revelations happened a few times and she would take it all in a totally-matter-of-fact way, not raising an eyebrow, just making motherly noises like “I expect most boys go through that.” and so on (I bet they don’t!). I wasn’t surprised by her relaxed attitude but I don’t really know what I’d hoped to achieve by saying any of this to her – probably nothing, just pushing the boundaries as it were, finding limits. Nothing came of it – I hadn’t expected anything to.
As I’ve said, she’s totally nice (so wouldn’t do anything that might upset my marriage), disinterested in sex (so would hardly overlook the fact that we are mother and son and offer me a shag) and frankly had been torn-apart by the loss of my father whom she idolised (and still does) and on whom she had relied rather too much in life. She’s also far from self-confident and not at all worldly-wise, although has grown mainly to cope with routine things over the last decade of living alone.
I suppose I might have been doing it because of the slight dare of verbally walking up to the subject that I was wanking about her but then stopping short, I don’t know. Anyway, it passed and conversations like that stopped for years but I carried on tossing myself off about various scenarios involving her and unlike other women about whom I wank the thrill has never worn off. I’m now in my early 50’s and she’s nearly 76, that bit more decrepit and worn out but I still would love to fill her full of me. She’s definitely my ultimate fantasy albeit I’m not obsessed, I do wank about other women and have the occasional sexual encounter with my wife.
I’ve done all sorts of things to embellish my mother-fetish, mostly quite tame again I’m afraid: I’ve made good quality fake photo’s putting her head on pictures of various nude women of ages matching the age she was in her photo – her 20’s, 40’s and 70’s – and wanked myself sore over them; I’ve swapped those fakes with blokes on the internet; I’ve posed as Mum in internet chat rooms, having cyber-sex with other men believing me to be an elderly widow. I’m not remotely gay (although I’m not against it), however in my experience there are few real women in those places and I can quite happily get off by doing this, getting really horny when I know others are cumming about my Mum – even watching them on a webcam ejaculate about her or in tributed pictures they email me, her face covered in their spunk.
When I’ve been lucky I’ve had some role play in chat rooms with people pretending to be Mum for me so I can have cybersex with “her” (quite ridiculous really – she’d have no idea how to even switch on a computer and, of course, the people I chat to don’t know her so can’t behave as she would – but I’ve made do, better than nothing).
I occasionally get access to Mum’s knickers, stockings or tights and borrow those to supplement my fantasies, cumming in the damp gusset or the salty nylon foot, all the better when unwashed of course, although I can’t bring myself to suck or sniff them, I simply prefer the idea of them having been worn by her, and like to mix my juices with hers, just getting an occasional feint whiff of her rather than a full-on blast; I’ve cum in her face cream, on her toothbrush, her freshly-laundered knickers – that way I get the thrill of knowing she’s had my spunk in her mouth or against her pussy lips. I used to do similar things to other, more remote relatives (my gran, aunts, cousins) as an adolescent and have done it since to my mother in law’s stuff – it just works for me, sorry if it’s creepy.
So that became the shape of things until about three harbiye escort years ago when I decided I wanted more. Again I warn you don’t expect too much here – I’m not going to pretend we’re nightly lovers, far from it. I schemed for ages but, in a nutshell, I decided I could probably ask Mum for a topless photo – nothing sultry or erotic, no fancy clothing, just stripped to the waist, boobs out, almost like a medical examination and a simple picture which I could then wank over and, of course, share with those I’d become familiar with on the web who have similar passions – there aren’t many, at least not many who’re prepared to admit it.
The question of how to broach the subject was easy – my wife and I were going through a particularly sticky patch and I would frequently complain to Mum about my treatment at my wife’s hands (in fact I’m sure I was as much to blame for the issues as my wife). It would be a small step to reveal the then truth that our sex life was suffering and pretend that, as a result, I was contemplating going elsewhere for sexual pleasures as I couldn’t get them at home. My Mum has such high regard for my wife that she would surely see when I asked for the photo that it would be the lesser of two evils to show me her tits rather than me waste money and cause infidelity going to a prostitute (in fact I’d not have the nerve to visit a prostitute but Mum is naïve and wouldn’t know that).
I fantasised for ages about how it would work in practical terms. Would I give her the digital camera and ask her to self-time a snap so that I didn’t have to be present? This would have the dual benefit of reducing her embarrassment and of presenting me with a photo afresh – how exciting! But then she’s hopeless with even the simplest technology – I was sure she’d mess it up. So how about me setting the camera to movie mode so that all she had to do was press the go button? That way I would also have the pleasure of seeing her undress and, perhaps, of eaves-dropping any private and revealing muttering she might do to herself, unaware the movie would have sound. Again, similar practical limitations applied plus I would not have as good a definition still picture to wank about. So that left me the option of doing it myself, preferably movie mode (without her knowing) as she undressed then a quick switch to high-resolution stills for some portraits – I might even get to tweak her nipples if they were flat, “Just for the camera you understand…”.
I came long, often and hard just plotting these things, imagining what might happen – would she insist on getting undressed first with me outside the room? Or would I be in there, camera running? It was all too exciting. But when an opportunity presented itself it was all very different.
We sat at her kitchen table drinking coffee (she doesn’t drink alcohol at all, it doesn’t agree with her) and I played out my scheme: neglectful wife; did she remember how I’d said I’d wanked about her when younger? Well I was doing it again – did she mind? (“No Love, not if it helps you with things at home, relieves the pressures…”). I even showed her some of the fake pics on my phone – some were even fakes of me fucking her but she was more flabbergasted by the skill of my photo-editing and how convincing it was than by the subject matter. She did make one or two “Oh Richard!” exclamations in a semi-rebuking, semi-embarrassed way but on balance she was cool as a cucumber – all was pointing in the right direction.
And that included my cock which was as hard as glass and dripping pre-cum into my suit trousers (it was after work) – I even had the nerve to push it down saying “It’s got a bit crowded in here!” so as to draw attention to my erection – but again she was nonchalant. As I recall she simply said “You’d better calm down!” meaning I’d best lose the swelling before I went home in case my wife got the idea I’d been seeing another woman – how bizarrely practical of her.
My heart in my mouth, temples pumping and dry-mouthed I popped the question – could I have a real photo? Please? Just one which nobody else would see and which I would keep safe. She could take it herself if she preferred – we’d find a way? I had imagined she’d laugh and think I was joking at first before saying “Well, if you want to then I suppose so…” but no such luck. She thought about it – asked me lots of predictable questions about it falling into the wrong hands, what if the family found it, that type of thing – I was amazed, stupidly I suppose. Despite her being a self-professed virtual sex-free-zone I’d thought nothing would be too much trouble for me, her boy but clearly it was not as simple as that. She couldn’t betray my wife – it wouldn’t be right. She wouldn’t mind otherwise if it would help me but no, sorry, too much was at stake.
I was thunder-struck. I suspect you are too, sorry, but I did say that this would be a faithful account and I’m not about to pretend she turned into a horny slut when quite clearly that ikitelli escort would be bullshit.
We talked round the subject for ages. At one point she asked “Why a photograph? How about if you just had a look?”. Her intention was that nobody could find anything incriminating that way. So I explained (but more delicately) that I couldn’t just toss myself off in front of her whilst ogling her chest (though, between you and me, I’d love to!) whereas with a photo I could “Enjoy myself whenever I pleased…”. But anyway, it wasn’t an offer – she wasn’t suggesting she’d give me a flash in the flesh, merely exploring the possibilities, thinking aloud. Damn! She droned on about her boobs being droopy these days, her skin dry and out of condition so why would I be interested? Why, indeed. But no amount of flattery, logic, pleading made any difference – she wouldn’t, sorry, it would be unfair on my wife. Otherwise she would, but not in the circumstances.
Well I didn’t want to hear that last bit especially – can you imagine my frustration that, in order to shut me up she’d have granted my wish and posed topless but because of her affection for my wife (with whom I was, of course, already not on the best of terms) she just couldn’t? I had some consolation later in that all the adrenalin meant I came pints when I got home but it wasn’t what I’d expected, and clearly not what I’d wanted.
I brought it up again. Often. Maybe half a dozen times over the next six months but she didn’t waver and, in the end, I decided I was being selfish, imposing on our relationship (on which she counted for many things) and further undermining her already low self-esteem. So I gave up. Sure, it got mentioned loosely in passing every now and then, or in jest when, say, she mentioned the tits (birds) in her garden and I would make a corny remark of some sort. But nothing of any seriousness and certainly not to the extent we’d talked during those few months after I’d first asked her. I continued to play on the internet, take her things, wank about her (even simple stuff like wanking about being allowed after all to take the photo) but I had to write off any idea of it actually happening. Things improved with my wife and our sex life perked up – but that’s not part of this account. Basically, I had enough to be going on with, despite being deprived of the real thing with Mum. I could close my eyes and imagine I was fucking Mum when my wife climbed aboard my cock.
Then last Christmas Mum came to stay with us for a few days. We’ve a separate a guest wing where she would sleep, bathe and so on – perfect for a hidden cam. By dint of casual comments (“Is the bathroom warm enough for you at night, Mum?”. “Yes Love, thank you – anyway I change in the bedroom so I don’t get cold cleaning my teeth!”) I discovered where to place the camera and on her final night planted it behind some books, pointing at the part of the room in which she would inevitably stand to undress – with 90 minutes recording time I only had to hope she would face the correct way. Boy was I dry-mouthed – others were in the house and discovery by anyone other than Mum would have been ruination of all sorts of relationships – I was being too selfish really but you might know what it’s like when you’re horny.
The following morning I made an excuse to use the bathroom in her quarters and retrieved the camera. Amazingly the batteries still had life – at first I thought it had switched off before capturing anything, I was so disappointed. But no – fast forwarding, sure enough Mum came into view, still fully dressed. Perfect. She even walked over towards where the camera was – I couldn’t believe my luck. But then as she unbuttoned her blouse and folded it away it dawned on me the camera was pointing too high, just above the top of her boobs – I could just see her breast bone – shit! She took her slip over her head and slid her bra straps off her shoulders before swivelling it round her body so that the clasp was at the front, presumably beneath her now exposed bosom and easier for her stiff hands to unfasten – it would have been magnificent to see her tits like that, each would have dropped from its cup as she’d slid her arms out of the shoulder straps and then, having brought the bra clasp to the front I guess she’d have had to lift each breast to unhook the clasp. Shit, shit, shit! My swollen cock shrivelled to almost nothing and a line of now cold pre-cum dripped down my thigh as I stood (I’d been pretending to use the toilet, trousers around ankles). It was difficult to maintain a smile over breakfast but I wrote it off to experience and just carried on where I’d left off, making do with my imagination.
One of the blokes I got chatting to on the web had very similar desires and difficulties. He is in his 50’s, his widowed Mum a lovely lady also in her 70’s – entirely different appearance to my mother but delightful, prudish and shy too. He and I compared notes and the whole thing rekindled my desire for something more than just fakes and thoughts – I wanted something tangible, preferably real. He and I traded pics – he made some great fakes of my Mum, and we swapped ideas and fantasies, adding fuel to my already hot fire. So I resolved to raise the subject with Mum again when the chance arose – could I please have a picture?
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