Here is my second offering in the taboo/Incest category. This time the story builds on the passionate love of a son (18+) for his mother through a fetish for her makeup, hairdo and lingerie.
It then goes on to explore how such an incestuous relationship might be sustained for the rest of their lives.
***PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK OR VOTE IF YOU LIKE MY STORY***
Sigmund Freud is a name I know, but I’ve never actually read any of his work. Although I am aware he proposed what he called the Oedipus complex.
It seems he came up with a theory that all small boys select their mother as their primary object of desire! He also believed that this occurs between the ages 3-5 years old.
As someone who fell passionately in love with his mother and became her lover at the age of 18, I have to disagree with the old guy on that point.
I never had carnal thoughts for her until I became a man.
I also have problems with Freud’s assertions that boys wish their fathers dead- so as they can replace them in their mother’s bed!
Again, not true in my case. I really cared for my Dad, that was until he fucked off and left us for a fat redhead. Then I wanted him dead.
I think my desire for Mum came to me by a circuitous route. Probably beginning when I discovered thrilling sexual stimulation from holding and smelling her makeup and lingerie.
But looking back I can’t honestly pinpoint any specific event that imprinted this fetish on me.
Anyway, here’s my story, so you can judge for yourself.
When I was 18 our family life changed irrevocably after dad met another woman and decided to leave Mum and me without warning.
One day we came back to an empty house. All our suitcases had disappeared, as had his clothes.
And to put the cherry on the cake, he had emptied their joint account, leaving us penniless.
The only item of any value he left behind was his wedding ring, which he had left on Mum’s pillow.
Fortunately the deeds of the house were in Mum’s name. Otherwise he would probably have kicked us out and installed his whore!
Somehow we coped and survived that seismic upheaval in our lives.
The consequence was that Mum had to take a job, which left me alone in the house for long periods after returning home from college. But at least I was still in education and hadn’t had to leave and take a job. I was in my second year of a photography course I hoped would eventually help me set up my own photographic studio.
In a happy coincidence mum had managed to get herself taken on as a back office assistant by a busy studio producing catalogues for some of the better known UK manufacturers of quality lingerie and makeup.
She liked the work and they seemed to take to her.
Looking back I still can’t imagine why Dad left Mum for a chubby red-headed tart ten years older than himself.
While Mum was no film star, at 36 she was slim and attractive with a head of shiny jet-black hair.
And while she mostly dressed down for work, she scrubbed up really well at weekends, when she put on makeup and wore stockings under quite tight skirts.
I knew she was proud of her figure, often commenting how she was still the same weight and dress size she had been at 17, just a year before I had been born.
More than once I had caught her standing side-on at her bedroom mirror, checking out her figure.
And sometimes she even asked me how she looked, and if I thought she was getting old.
I always told her the truth that I thought her the most beautiful woman in the world. Most times that got me a cuddle against her firm breasts, a closeup smell of her perfume and lipstick and a kiss on my forehead.
Those were the moments I cherished most in my life. They were possibly one reason I gradually fell in love with her. But there were other reasons.
At this point it might help the describe myself to you as I was at the time of my story, as it should add some fun to any scenes you might care to imagine.
Many of my friends thought me a throwback from the Mediterranean, because my skin was darker than theirs, despite my mother having the pale sallow skin of the indigenous English.
By biggest embarrassment came initially in the school showers and later in the gym, when everyone saw the skin of my circumcised penis and testicles was considerably darker then that of my body.
Of course the jibes and jokes were remorseless, but the oddest thing was the number of guys who came up to me to look at my dark prick and tell me how the girls would love that in them.
But at the time I just I couldn’t see it, and tried to hide myself whenever possible.
But my main characteristic was,(and still is) I’m a hairy man, black curly hair on my head, constant Bluebeard chin and curly hair growing thickly over my chest, back, arms and legs. A gene inherited from my father’s side of the family.
Whenever I wore sleeveless `T` shirts, girls I knew came bahis firmaları up to me and twirled or pulled at the hair sticking out from my shoulders chest and back.
Some loved it, some found it repulsive. Not too surprising in a world where men are preferred with their bodies shaved clean, like porn stars.
So I looked more like a Sicilian pimp than the diligent, but shy, English photography student (and virgin) I was.
However the was one girl, Simone Andretti, AKA ‘Simmi’, who was always hanging around me. Seems It was obvious to everyone (except me) that she was hot for me.
While the other girls were tugging my body hair she was the only one caressing my arms, as if she loved the touch of my wiry hair.
Simone, half English, half Italian, was a tall, elegant girl with curly black hair like mine. She liked to wear her hair big, exploding outwards onto her shoulders.
And she was tall, if anything a smidgen taller than me.
Her height, svelte figure and intense beauty she inherited from her mother, Selena Andretti, whom she always called Mama.
I’d met Mama a couple of times when I called for Simone.
Selena was a true beauty, quite breathtaking, one of those magnificent women that hush a room when she enters, everyone turning just to glimpse her grace and radiance.
While Simone had undoubtedly inherited the awesome gift of beauty from her Mama, she lacked the finesse, charm and heart-melting femininity that differentiates a beautiful looking woman from a truly beautiful person.
Like her Mama, Simone could hush a room with her looks, vivacious smile and flashing eyes when she entered.
But should any sexual predator move in on her, instead of finding grace and gentleness, they faced the bared fangs of a young she wolf.
It was that same height, same big hair, tough self-confidence and disarming aggression that intimidated many of the guys on the course.
Indeed, most people kept their distance from her because Simmi had a bite. And when she was going to bite she would snarl and curse her victims in crude Italian.
Yet she never bit me – nor snarled.
Some said she was a psycho bitch, but I really loved being in her company. She purred at me. Indeed, she was always warm, patient and caring.
On the other hand, she could be a delight to be with.
During various course photographic projects we tended to drift together, and had often taken portraits of one-another.
The camera loved Simone.
A couple of times we had dated, but she had always been keener on our friendship than me. Although I liked her very much and did enjoy her company, I found her a bit too touchy-feely.
But I must confess I did enjoy just looking at her, the symmetry of her face, her firm body and wonderful breasts.
We had never got as far as intercourse. I had always suspected sex was on offer – if only I had had the courage to make the first move.
Simmi came around to our house a couple of times and had even met Mum. Once, while looking at photographic magazines in my bedroom she had come on to me very strongly. If Mum hadn’t have interrupted she would probably have taken me by force!
Despite my Latin appearance I actually liked how I looked.
I smiled a lot, loved joking around and girls told me I was attractive – but in a dangerous sort of way? Whatever that meant?
Truth is, I was a pussy cat that only looked like a tiger.
And at just over 6′ tall with a powerful body, most guys didn’t push the animal wisecracks too far.
Anyway, enough about me and back to the story.
I had always been a curious young man.
Whenever Mum was out I would check through all the draws and cupboards in the house. It took a long time as I took great care to put everything back exactly as it was.
My prying was never discovered. To aid me I often took digital photos of drawer or cupboard contents and used them to double check everything was put back correctly.
Eventually I came to know where all the secrets were hidden.
My favourite place to pry was the dressing table in my mother’s bedroom. In the drawers, boxes and bottles there were so many fascinating and forbidden things to touch and smell.
I loved inhaling her perfume and the smell of face powder. I got particularly aroused exploring her lipsticks, twisting them open and delighting in their gloss and colours. It was almost irresistible not to lick and taste the lipsticks, but doing so would have certainly led to my discovery.
As was the temptation to rub her skin creme on my penis.
Sometimes I could get off just by sniffing her hairbrush or sucking strands of her raven hair.
But best of all was her intimate underwear draw.
It was literally a treasure chest of erotic things to fondle, sniff for her body odour or stroke against my lips and cheeks.
Among the erotic contents were packs of expensive nylons, black lace suspender belts and a shoe box containing two pairs of gorgeous ‘fuck-me’ stiletto heels.
At kaçak iddaa the bottom of one draw I found a sealed plastic bag containing a used condom, still with semen in it. I assumed it was a tangible and tactile reminder of the last time she and Dad had sex. It smelled musty and was cold to the touch.
These shameful forays into her most intimate places were also my only real-world connection to the lingerie worn by the sexy women in my men’s magazines.
Her bedroom was a dreamland that I longed to return to whenever I was alone in the house.
At first I was content getting erections from her stuff.
However it didn’t take long for me to begin jacking off into a handkerchief while sniffing and caressing her underwear. I got particularly aroused sniffing the soiled nickers and stockings she had in her laundry basket.
My growing sexual desire for her lingerie didn’t go away when I closed her bedroom door.
Lingerie consumed my thoughts throughout the day and became even more vivid when alone in bed.
At night I always dreamed of Mum dressing for me in her black silk lingerie. These images were so vivid that it felt that I could actually reach out and run my hands up her seamed stockings.
These nightly erotic images became so intense I could ejaculate without even having to touch my penis! Wet dreams.
Once, not long after Dad had left, a group of her girlfriends persuaded her to go out with them for the evening. As if in an act of defiance against her situation, Mum made a special effort to look her best. When she came downstairs I was wowed with her appearance.
She had chosen a simple black dress that hugged her in all the right places, and was short enough to hint at stocking tops and suspenders.
Her hair was styled into a casual up-do with a few loose strands hanging over her ears. I don’t think I’d ever taken notice of her long neck before, and I felt a thrill of sexual pleasure just by looking at her.
Also, and a first time for me, she wore those high heels I’d first seen in the shoebox.
She also had on a pair of white button earrings that somehow made her look years younger.
I told her truthfully that she looked stunning and smelled good enough to eat, then asked if I could take a photo of her.
She agreed and I spent a couple of minutes shooting her from several angles on my college DSLR camera.
Mum went along with my photo shoot, making sexy poses for fun, like models do in TV programs. I immediately regretted not anticipating this photo opportunity and preparing backdrops and lights.
But what the hell, if I wanted to be a professional photographer I had to deal with whatever came along.
Then her friends arrived at the front door. But before she left Mum gave me another of her wonderful affectionate hugs. It allowed me to get close enough to inhale her dreamy Chanel No 5 perfume and smell her face powder.
But more importantly, she pressed her breasts tight against me. A seemingly innocent hug to her, but to my sex-obsessed mind, it felt like foreplay. A clear signal that she wanted me!
It would have been so easy to lift her dress and run a hand up her silk stockings.
Unknown to her I took a couple of quick snaps of her sexy ass and stocking seams as she left the house.
Immediately I ran upstairs to begin editing the photos on my PC in PhotoShop.
Several were good enough to print so I sent them to my A3 photo printer.
Soon I was lying across her bed, jerking off at the large full colour photos of her while sniffing the panties and tan work stockings she had left on the floor.
Then I transferred the photos of her to my smartphone so I could jerk off at them during college breaks.
They must have had a powerful effect on me as I began to lose all interest in girls of my own age. I even gave my slightly soiled collection of men’s magazines to a dorky guy at college.
One afternoon, confident I was alone, breathing in the scent from a pair of her silk stockings, she came quietly into her bedroom behind me.
Dressed in her plain work clothes she looked very ordinary.
I guess she must have watched me for some time until eventually I groaned and writhed with pleasure, ejaculating hard into a handkerchief in my trousers.
When she cleared her throat I could have died with embarrassment.
But she just stood there watching me. Not looking at my erection, nor her lingerie, but intently at my face.
I said nothing, feeling only shame.
“Just for a moment I thought it was your Dad,” she said wistfully, while running her long fingers through my curly black hair.
“You’re so much like him Jack. Same slim body. Same beautiful face an same hairy skin.”
“Jeez, I’m sorry Mum, I didn’t mean to…”
“How long have you been getting off on my underwear love?” she asked softly.
Then I blurted it all out, the whole sordid story of my fixation with her makeup, perfume and lingerie.
Remarkably she said nothing, kaçak bahis just nodding as she listened.
She was so patient, so understanding.
At one point she sat down on her bed and, holding my hand, indicated me to sit beside her.
It felt surreal to be talking of her erotic lingerie and me getting erections and ejaculating at the slightest thought of her wearing those stockings and suspenders.
In another way it was a great relief that at last she knew how I felt about my bedroom obsession with her.
When I had finished my story she leant forward, kissing me gently on the cheek.
She explained that she understood how I felt and reassured me it was quite natural for a boy to feel like that about his Mum, and it would be alright if I continued to use her lingerie.
She added that Dad used to love sniffing her pants from the linen basket and she understood the power female pheromones held over some men.
Then further shocked me by saying she didn’t mind me masturbating with her lingerie as long as I washed my hands first and didn’t actually come on them or the bed!
Then, still gently holding my hand, she lightened the moment by saying at least now she knew what to buy me for my next birthday present!
Almost as an afterthought she asked if I had told anyone about my lingerie secrets and how I felt about her.
I tried to reassure her that it was a deep secret kept secure in my head. If I had have mentioned my kinky fetish at college I would have been labeled a pervert for sure, and it would never have left me.
She nodded, but I had the feeling she didn’t really believe me.
So, after relating my most cringe-worthy, intimate and shameful sexual fantasies about her, she simply smiled and told me to go get ready for our evening meal.
Later that evening a couple of my college friends came round our house to compare homework projects.
We sat and chatted as usual but I was intrigued to watch how the other guys reacted to Mum.
I needn’t have worried. When she came in with hot drinks and biscuits they thanked her as normal then just got on with what we were doing. Neither seemed even remotely aware she was anything other than my Mum.
But I studied her closely as she moved among us on the pretext of tidying up.
On the face of it she appeared her usual cuddly Mum, but I followed her eyes as she scanned the guys faces for any signs of their knowledge of my secret, sniggering or for any overtly sexual interest in her. But there was non.
In hindsight she probably assumed I must have taken my friends upstairs for them to ogle at her lingerie.
Then, just as she was leaving the room through the door behind my preoccupied friends, she paused for a moment, framed in the doorway, twisted her body three quarters towards me, stretched her sweater tightly to show the exciting curves of her breasts. Then with one hand, lifted her hair off her neck in a casual up-do, with the other she held up a pair of her black seamed stockings and pretended to inhale.
On her ears she wore the white circles of her alter ego’s ivory-white earrings.
For a couple seconds I was stunned and I think my jaw dropped. Then she winked at me and smiled as she let go of her hair. Then she was gone.
After that, my head was in turmoil.
I had of course got the usual ramrod erection and struggled to gain my composure lest my friends saw my confusion and began asking awkward questions.
But I somehow managed to make it appear I was doing my course project work. Eventually my erection subsided.
Later, when my friends had left we sat watching TV together on the sofa as if nothing had happened.
Mum said nothing of my earlier sexual confessions, nor of her provocative tease at me in the doorway.
Towards midnight we turned off the TV, said goodnight and I drifted off to my bed as she got things ready for breakfast in the morning.
I lay in bed listening to her moving around downstairs. After a little while I heard her switch off the lights, come quietly upstairs and heard the click of the bedroom door closing.
She moved around her room for a few minutes then I heard a draw slide open and soon after the house went quiet.
With nothing to hear but plenty to think about, I switched off the light, curled up in the fetal position and tried to go to sleep – but it was impossible.
My mind was a maelstrom of desire and emotion, churning the events of the day over and over, like an endless video.
But at some point I must have drifted off because I was wakened by Mum calling me to get up or I’d be late.
On college days she always made me a cooked breakfast, to ‘set me up for the day,’ as she was fond of saying.
After showering, shaving and dressing I made my way downstairs, but hesitated on the last couple of steps to gain my composure. But needn’t have bothered. She must have heard me and shouted her usual, “Good a morning love, did you sleep well? Breakfast is almost ready.”
“Thanks Mum”, I shouted back from the dining room, “D’you think you do me a piece of fried bread please?”
“There’s something tastier than fried bread here for you love, come and see!” she called back.