I’m Thinking about my Son

tagIncest/TabooI'm Thinking about my Son

Hi all. PLEASE leave a comment. As a writer we live for that, even if it is just one word.
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This is a work of fiction and all characters are above the age of 18.
Listen to me.
I am off my antidepressant, pandemic isolated and thinking of spending time behind closed doors with my nineteen-year-old son. No. I need to be more honest with you. Behind closed doors is a really just a euphemism for the sexual urges I struggle with daily. It means, in the most clear and definitive way, that I want to crawl all over him.
I want to satisfy my own lust and to then satisfy his. I want to use my body to make him lose his mind. I want to devour him. I want to suck him so very gently. I want to bring him to the edge of sanity and push him over. I want to own him and never be alone again.
I need to know you are listening because I am desperate. I swear to you, the pandemic has made me insane.
I am desperate to feel again. I am desperate to experience pleasure and to orgasm with the gentle and loving hand of another. I am so tired of the false satisfaction of toys. I need connection to address my lust.
Truth be told, I would be every bit as pleased to be taken by a rough hand. To be pushed up against a wall in my bedroom and have fingers go to places that make me lose control. I of course would resist in a vain attempt to save face; I struggle against the fingers that fill me. I sense I am falling, and that first wave of warmth emanates from my warm soft middle. It is a moment of madness. I hold onto a corner dresser and the second wave hits. I tremble and hear sounds that are not human come from my throat. This is not normal. This is animal. I cum for what seems like forever.
I lie in the center of the bed alone and am largely unable to move. The bed is white, and it is clean. I rest.
My name is Anne, and I am forty-four years old. I am a dominant and have been most of my life. It's probably the reason that my mirage to Tom failed as he was unable to handle what he called the abuse. For the record, being dominant is not abuse. I took very good care of him sexually in our marriage and he was never unsatisfied. I think he resented what he perceived as my sexual power over him.
As a former nurse, I know how to bring pleasure to men in ways that play far more than to just their fantasies. I know how to control and excite with just my words.
Once early last summer, on a very rainy Sunday morning in a quiet corner of post-op, I made a patient orgasm with just my words. All I really did was whisper to him very gently, my face so close to his soft warm cheek. It did not take long. I felt his body jerk and saw the stain form on his hospital jonnie. I looked away to avoid embarrassing him. The feeling of power sent me to the rest room to deal with my own lust shortly afterwards.
By the way, despite what nurses will say they do use their hands-on patients. It happens every single day in every single hospital. It is even more prevalent in the richer European countries, especially at private clinics where the wealthy go to convalesce. Those who attend to patients know that if you see a nurse walk into a room with a few towels and closes the door, you do not knock and enter. You just walk on to your next patient.
When the pull around curtain is engaged, it is so easy to use just a bit of hospital lube in your hand to finish your patient. I do this rarely, but I love how it feels to me. Upon that first touch, I feel their body tense. I whisper to them very gently.
"Shhhhh, let me help you"
I feel them relax a bit. I connect my thumb to my first finger making a very flat O in order to maximize skin contact and play to the desperation of the moment. I go back and forth just below the head and I can feel the need build. The most pleasurable time for me is in the last 30 thirty seconds or so. I feel myself moisten as they get so very close and I whisper to them one more time.
"Shhhh. Please."
I gently put the other hand on their mouth. Most lose it right there. I feel them release into my hand. I smile as I feel them throb and think of the unequal power dynamics between us. They are fearful, alone and vulnerable. I am here for them and I bring them physical pleasure and release. I bring them a smiling woman who is caring for them who uses her skills to comfort, excite and relax. I can assure you that is good medicine.
Problem is that now at home, I want to do this to my son.
Michael is nineteen and looks very much like me. Ectomorph yet with a surprisingly muscular upper body, sandy blonde hair and a delicate nose. He laughs at the wrong times, yet he is kind. He stands just a bit over one hundred and ninety pounds and is probably six feet in height.
Since the lockdown, I have come to know him. To sense his moods and see him under this very unusual pressure as he struggles to attend college online. He tends to be private, but I will tell you one thing I know for absolutely one hundred percent sure; he masturbates. I know this because no matter how smart and covert he might be.
As for you dear reader, please know that if you masturbate, your mother knows. The reason we know is because the male species is good at hiding the act but not good at hiding the result of the act, the ejaculate. Really now, how smart does a mom have to be? My son puts it in his socks and often tries to wipe it on the back of his boxers. (Really now, does he think that I would only look for it on the front?)
I hope you are listening because really, I am so desperate. I am cracking apart here and the only outlet I have is to manage this is to speak to folks who will never know who I am.
Not only do I know that Michael masturbates, I know when he masturbates. It is usually in the four o'clock timeframe when he tells me he is going to rest. It is the look in his eyes that gives it away. He appears distracted; far off. I know he is forming the ideas that will play out as he works to achieve his orgasm.
This is most disturbing to me because it changes the dynamic of how I am to behave with him. I have noticed that if it is very quiet, I hear him orgasm. It is exquisite. There is a strangled sound that comes from his throat. It is almost reedy in terms of timbre, yet the sound is somehow thick. From my side of the door, it sounds like he is being strangled.
I sense he knows how to milk his pleasure and does so down to the very last twitch. I wonder if this is a moment, he wanted me to hear; to bear witness to his lust. I wonder if the hunted is actually the hunter. Am I the predator or the prey? I feel a fear that is almost primitive.
I understand that I have no physical strength that comes close to matching his. He can take me at will. Does he want me to hear? Does he understand what is happening here? Does he sense my need? What is to stop him from walking in on me with a raging hardon? Will I have any say in any of this? I am frightened.
I think about Michael all the time. I suppose that I am obsessed but you would be too if you were asexual for almost a year and lived with a nineteen-year-old. He is the loveliest thing to see in the morning. He has an emerging line of hair on his chest that goes up so nicely from his belly button to his pecs. It is gorgeous.
My early thinking involves me going to his bed on a sleepy Sunday morning in just panties and a tee. I imagine rubbing up against him and holding his cock from behind.
'It's Ok. Shhh, just lay still sweetie. Let me give you this."
I rub him with my fingers and his body stiffens. I feel his muscles knot and try to make it last. His breathing is ragged, and he is so close. I gently use my fingers and watch how he reacts. He is beyond slowing down and he groans deeply.
It is a moment so sexual; so loving, that it will remain in his mind for the rest of his life. He takes his pleasure and is done. I feel his cock throb in my hand. I milk him gently until he slowly relaxes, and his breathing become regular. I feel a deep love for him. I hold him tightly feeling that warm ejaculate in my loving hand.
I listen to him doze. I get out of bed, get a bit of warm water and a basin from the kitchen. I take a washcloth with a bit of dish soap and ever so gently, I wash him up. He groans in his sleep. I hold his balls in my hand. I roll them around gently. They are soft. I am in love. Did the lockdown do this to my mind? Perhaps.
I feel lust as he sleeps. I imagine the endless ways to enjoy him. I imagine what I can give to him sexually and what he can give to me. I think of my Catholic school. I feel ashamed. Then I think to myself that perhaps God gave us that level of physical and psychological pleasure in order to survive. Perhaps or release is from the grace of Gods loving hand touching us in our most desperate place? Then again, perhaps, there is no God whatsoever.
As it relates to Michael, I am convinced that he gets his sexual dynamics from me and not his father. Except for the eyes, he is all me. I know what his sexual life will be. I understand the darkness and the rage that bubbles below his beautiful olive skin.
If he is like me from a psychological perspective, he will have sexual thoughts as a cornerstone of his life. He will believe in the struggle for power and control. He will know, as I do, that every sexual encounter has a winner and a loser. That sexual love is seldom out of altruistic tenderness and love but of passion, often twisted and controlling.
I feel shaken and I am struggling. I imagine him coming on to me. Oh Lord, how easy that would be. I could remain the innocent as he takes the psychological fall for this unspeakable transgression. For what is in essence, an act of rape. I imagine him at the foot of the bed, and he begins to crawl up towards my face. He gets about halfway, and I wrap my thighs around his head very gently. I pull his head forward.
"Gentle. Easy sweetie" I say.
He does not answer me and quite frankly, I did not expect him to. I expect him to be busy on more pressing matters. I gently put my hand on the back of his head and pull his face still closer to my need. I feel him lick me. He takes my clit between his lips as it emerges from its hooded position.
"No, just lick me Faster sweetie" I say.
He responds instantly and licks a bit faster. That is perfect and I know that I will not last long. My eyes are closed, and I imagine his face buried deeply under my skirt. I think about that a lot because to me, a woman being pleasured in that way is so deeply loving. So many men would be so much more successful with women if they spent more time licking them. Really, it is simple as that. I would do anything for a man to take his time with me in that way. To work with me until the madness came and washed it all away. I would love a man who does that to me.
"Now, you can suck it" I say as he moves his lips around my very angry clit. I can't even explain what he does to me because I am losing it. Then the shocker; he toys with my ass. I had no idea he even knew this was a good thing to do. His touch is gentle. I stiffen slightly. He pauses.
"Easy" he says. "Shhhhh…easy mom" he says.
His voice is that of calm and lust. I sense he knows what he is going to do to me and what is going to happen. Without warning, he takes his fuck finger and massages me there. No one has ever done this to me before. I feel as vulnerable as I have ever felt. I am splayed out right there and he is in charge. His finger is so well lubed. He slides into me turning his finger in a slight circular motion and then presses into his knuckle.
There is no movement. None from him and none from me.
"Good girl" he says. I lose it.
I cum right there as I go rigid for those first few seconds. I remain quiet as I shudder in a desperate attempt at controlling this monster orgasm that once released, once shared, is never going to go back into the box. I am painfully aware that this would be a lifechanging moment for us both with going back to simpler days not an option. It will be a thing shared by us forever. I feel like I am on fire. My orgasm is desperate. He holds me in place with his other arm and uses his body to control my movement. I only know that I writhe and try to breathe as he presses into me.
"Stop; easy" I say as I push him away ever so gently because I get so sore afterwards. I hold him there with my thighs and continue to spasm. It is a while before I can move again. My breathing normalizes. I am soaked.
Please listen to me because I will not last the winter without relief. I take a break from this on this bleak Sunday in 2021. I sit on the couch. I am in panties and a tee and I am wet. I need relief. I have come to realize that when you have been sexually alone for a long time, there are moments of desperation that are hard to even explain.
I am alone in the house and I lie down on my bed. I pull open my side table to get my rabbit and anal plug. I feel embarrassed at telling you of my need. Of my lust. It makes me want to weep.
I apply warm lube to myself as well as the plug. I lie back and slowly slide the tip of my thumb into my soft rear.
The groan I hear is mine and I balance moving forward with control because I do not want this to end. I remove my thumb and hold the thick end of the plug in my hand and gently push in the tip. I stop. I continue. I feel myself filling with this wonderful device. I stop and take a few long breaths. Cleansing breaths. I pull my heels back and press it in all the way. I stop.
I just lie quietly and breather. I do not touch my clit at all because if I do that, I will rock to orgasm. I lie still. The feeling of fullness is palpable. I feel like I can orgasm just through sheer will. I pull my knees to my face halfway and turn on my rabbit. It seems like just a few seconds, but my orgasm is withering. I stiffen and rock quietly for the longest time. My mind goes elsewhere as I try to cope with this pleasure. I struggle to stop shaking.
It is over. I feel flat and dejected.
I hear the key in the door. It is Michael and he is home two hours early.
"Mom, you home?"
Mom?

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