Lights, Camera, Incest

tagIncest/TabooLights, Camera, Incest

At thirty-five years of age, moving back into my family home, (with a parent still in residence mind you) wasn't the greatest thing to happen in my life. However, a messy divorce and the abrupt termination of a lease on my apartment saw me back in my childhood bedroom, a full fifteen years after I left. It wasn't all bad I hasten to add. Mom was glad of the company and it enabled me to secure funds, ultimately to regain my independence.
For two months it felt we weren't so much mother and son, more like flat mates. She had her life, work, friends. And I had mine. Namely work, with many of my marriage's mutual friends siding with my wife. And so, we existed. Under the same roof, shared expenses, shared food and after a chance discovery, a shared bed. I can tell you the exact day and time my feelings for my mother turned from love to lust. If you're curious, it was a Saturday and it was 10:35am. But I'm sure you're more interested in the 'how?'
I was absently scrolling through channels on the television mid Sunday morning when Mom huffed in my general direction as she passed by holding laundry. "What?" I laughed.
"You know what," she sniggered and I acquiesced by switching off the TV.
"I'm bored," I defended my inaction and she again scoffed.
"Well, if you're looking for something to do, clean out all your old junk from the garage. But in the meantime, come help me make the bed."
Neither were the most interesting of endeavors, but short of something else to focus on, followed her progress toward the bedroom.
Strangely, the realization I'd not entered her domain since my return to the house had an impact on me. No reason as to why it should, but helping her with the 'hospital corners,' I felt like getting it over with as soon as possible. Extra cushions perfectly aligned and a throw rug strategically positioned, we soon had it looking like a Good Housekeeping cover and I made to leave before I noticed her closet door.
"What's with this?" I touched the misaligned sliding mirrored door, clearly off its track.
"Oh, that bloody thing," she waved her hand dismissively. "It always falls of the rail."
I gave it a wobble and a tug and on closer inspection could see the problem, a spanner needed to solve the issue.
"Your father had to fix it every few months," she added.
"And how long's it been like this then?" I asked, the ability to close the door completely removed and I waited for Mom to reply, finally turning when she didn't.
She was watching me, the dirty sheets wrapped in her arms. "Since he…" She paused and I knew as to why she'd struggled in responding. Dad's illness, diagnosis, and eventual passing had been swift and in the two years since, the broken door was stark evidence I'd not been around enough to support her. I now was man of the house and starting right then, I determined to right at least one wrong.
"Well," I chuckled to return some levity to the morning. "I was looking for something to do!"
Mom looked past me toward the closet and the partly open door.
"Oh, you don't have too," she moved to my side of the bed, standing between me and the closet in a not-so-subtle attempt to obscure, 'something.'
"It's no problem," I headed out of the room, lightly touching her arm as I left in an attempt at consoling. Allowing her to take care of whatever was in the closet she was uncomfortable with me viewing.
When I returned with the suitable tools, she was gone. A dressing gown thrown over the large cardboard box I'd spied on the floor inside the closet, hinted at what she'd been nervous about. But why? There are those moments where you know what you're about to do could have drastic effects and you contemplate whether to do them. This was my moment. Before I began work on the door, I took a step back to be sure she wasn't coming down the hallway then reached in and lifted the gown.
The box was closed with a simple fold and with an admittedly shaking hand, (memories of sneaking peeks at Christmas presents coming to mind) I lifted one of the flaps. I was actually kind of disappointed when I saw VHS cassette covers. Dad had been a collector of films and my initial thought was this was his excess storage space. A cursory inspection of a label had me doubting this however. A date. Nothing more. More than ten years previous. The others proved similar, no description as to what they contained, only dates. The size of the box had me calculating how many tapes were held inside without removing any more, and I came up with more than fifty. What was on them? Tv shows? Sporting events Dad had wanted to preserve?
I placed the gown back over the box, cursing myself for not taking note of how it was covered in the first place and went to work on the door. Just in time too, with Mom entering to see how I was progressing.
"Thank you for this," she said as she sat upon the bed to watch. To watch? I wondered. Or to make sure I didn't look inside the closet? I put it out of my mind as I effectively reattached the sliding mechanism and had the door back in working order, demonstrating to her the ease of opening and closing. "Thank you Honey," she repeated and I was rewarded with a kiss. Not completely a foreign sign of affection from her, but in the circumstances, unexpected.
*
I let it slip from my mind. It wasn't until at least three days later that I even thought of the box. Its contents. It entered my head when cleaning out the garage of my old ephemera. Books to donate to charity, toys and games from my childhood that had no real value but the sentimental. There were DVDs that I put aside to watch again, before at the bottom of a box I found old dubbed VHS wrestling tapes.
I dumped them straight into the rubbish before the lightbulb went on in my head. What WAS on those tapes, I wondered? I no longer owned a VCR. I was pretty sure Mom didn't either. Now that I thought of it, nor had any of my friends. What was the likelihood of finding a working one on Craigslist, I wondered? And for what reason? Some probably irrelevant TV shows from the past stored in my Mom's wardrobe? It was only when opening a box of old electrical cables and power boards, did I discover the answer to my dilemma.
I'd never seen it before. It was old enough for Mom and Dad to have had it when I was still at home, and if they had, I'd definitely never seen it used. An old bulky video camera, most likely from the 90's, the deck revealing it to indeed be VHS. As if some premonition of what was to be, a strange feeling washed over me, my hands becoming slightly clammy, my stomach turning.
I turned it on and wasn't surprised it didn't function, the battery clearly being long dead. However, upon searching further in the box I found a charging pack and set about restoring power to the ageing machinery. Probably doesn't even work anymore. I told myself as I found a box of my old comics and set about losing myself in the adventures of the X-Men.
It was three hours later and on my third trip back from the kitchen with beer, that I noticed the red light on the charger had turned to green. Rescuing one of my wrestling tapes from the bin, I loaded it and the battery back into the camera, pressed play and brought the small viewfinder to my eye.
In black and white, Stone Cold Steve Austin was knocking beer cans together prior to chugging in the middle of the ring and I switched it off with a weird feeling in my gut. I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I had a growing suspicion from the moment I found them what may have been on the video tapes in Mom's closet. I couldn't bring myself to openly contemplate it but now that I had a working player, there was nothing preventing me from finding out. Of course, I could just ignore it. Put the camera away and forget about the box in the bedroom. I could do that. But I knew I wouldn't. Curiosity had the better of me and now I just had to bide my time for a chance to investigate.
*
Two days passed. I worked longer hours than Mom and had to travel further to and from. My time home alone was non-existent. I thought of sneaking into her room while she was in the bathroom. She'd announced her decision to take a bath Friday night and immediately my mind went to the videotapes. I controlled myself. I would be violating her privacy looking at the videos to begin with, I didn't want to exacerbate it by loitering outside her en suite door while she was naked. Naked. I repeated to myself and I finally admitted what I expected to find on the tapes. Was it possible? So many questions. Why did Dad have a video camera he'd kept secret from me? Why else would Mom attempt to hide the cache of tapes?
I figuratively slapped myself across the face. Nonsense. Dad didn't make dirty movies! Maybe the tapes did have some adult content, but it was probably recorded from cable television or something. Whatever the case, I went to bed Friday night with no resolution but the satisfaction I had the means to solve the conundrum.
*
Was I becoming obsessed? You bet. But with Mom playing tennis Saturday morning at her club, I was finally afforded the time alone to put an end to the mystery that had me ensconced. The moment her car reversed from the drive, I was hurtling through the house like a madman. I could see how ridiculous was my behaviour, entering Mom's personal space to snoop through her closet. I justified it to myself that maybe I was saving her from embarrassment. Maybe she didn't know what was on Dad's tapes. Maybe they WERE porn that Dad had acquired and Mom hadn't got around to investigating herself.
When I placed the first in the camera and knelt on the floor of her room, pressing play and squinting into the one-inch screen, it was worse than I'd imagined. Or was it better?
The tape hadn't begun at the start. Clearly by what was occurring on screen, much had taken place beforehand. The room was unmistakable, the one in which I now sat. The subject, or more to the point, the actor who took up the bulk of the scene, immediately recognizable.
My dad wasn't a small man. His back, which I knew well, was hairy. What I hadn't expected to ever discover was what he looked like from this particular angle. The camera focused on his legs, ass and hirsute balls as he thrust into what I could only fathom was my mother. The sight was admittedly nauseating and for a moment I regretted my every action. I shouldn't have seen this. No one should have to see this! And then, admittedly unable to remove my eyes, he rose from between her legs and left the bed.
The sight of my father's glistening erection would be singed on my brain forever but the burn was soothed somewhat when the camera was taken up from wherever it had been positioned. A moment of unsteady blurriness before it was trained upon my mother. Having remained in her prone position, Dad zoomed in on her surprisingly smiling face before panning down her torso. It was a feeling I'd never experienced. I was witness to something so forbidden that I had to remind myself to breathe. My mother's large breasts, separated as she lay on her back, sat before me. Pale, rounded. Nipples hard amid the shadow of areola. Dad panned down and onto her full bush, her legs spread wide it afforded me an unobscured view of her vulva amid dark pubic hair, and the cum that slowly flowed from her vagina.
Her hand slid down to cup her sex and Dad pulled back, taking one last shot of her entire body. She was naked, she was content and she was ethereally beautiful. The screen turned to black and then snow, the time showing 10:35am, all that was left for me to stare at on the display as I felt the world turn on its axis.
I was right. I was not supposed to see this. A son was never meant to view his mother so. To see her exposed. To see her sex so carnally displayed. But the erection that strained against the confines of my jeans was evidence I wanted to see more. Feverishly I ejected the tape and sought another from the box. Could they all hold similar? If it was the case, there were potentially hundreds of hours of my mother naked, caught on film for posterity.
I didn't look at the dates listed on the label but this time I noted the tape was wound to the beginning. It started with a wonky shot of the living room, the décor as it was today so little idea of the year. Dad's voice way too close to the microphone told someone to enter as though he were directing a scene and moments later Mom walked into the room. Immediately I removed my eye from the viewfinder and pressed stop on the tape. She didn't deserve this. A tiny black and white image.
My days awaiting time alone in the house hadn't been entirely idle. From my back pocket I pulled the composite cables I'd ferreted out of the electronics box and slotted them into the camera. Fortuitously, Mom's old LCD bedroom television had the appropriate plugs and I had the camera connected in seconds, AV selected and standing back to begin the show.
I swallowed a lump in my throat. Mom was in black heels. The purple fishnet stockings she wore must have come with the lingerie above, their color matching perfectly. Thigh highs, they were connected with suspenders to the bodice and between was the tiniest pair of panties she could possibly have found.
As if he read my thoughts, Dad whispered for her to turn and I watched as Mom, with one hand on the mantel above the fire place displayed her ass. It was as I suspected, a thong. The string disappearing between her luscious bare buttocks. I felt light headed as she, without encouragement, leaned forward and spread her legs, the bulge of pussy split down the middle by a thin purple string.
This was insane. This woman was not my mother. Mom got embarrassed when there were sex scenes in movies for fuck's sake! I wanted to fast forward and see where it led but the box beckoned me and I pressed stop just as she turned and ran her hands up to her breasts. Should I have been rewinding them to their original position as I went, I wondered as I ejected and sought another? Probably. But my dick was in charge now and thinking ahead, I released it from its bonds as I stuffed another tape into the deck.
Of this date, I took notice. Only a year before Dad died. Much like the last, Mom was the opening act and it was possible from the stillness of the camera, Dad wasn't even there. She wore a long evening dress that I'd certainly never seen her wear to any of our family get-togethers. And how could she? There was barely anything covering her breasts. Brazenly bra less, they bulged around the black material and the shadow of areola was visible; her midriff was exposed and a slit in the skirt ran to her upper pelvis. With long black gloves she was clearly playing to the camera as she took hold of the hem of the split and allowed it to reveal her groin.
As a furry mound of manicured pussy came into view, I'm ashamed to admit the small amount of pressure of my hand around my cock caused me to spontaneously ejaculate.
I hadn't cum that quickly since I was a teenager! Aghast I attempted to mitigate the damage, cupping a hand over the head of my cock as I released into my palm. It was a complete disaster, cum dripping to the carpet below. I looked up at the screen to at least gain extra stimulus from my mother, to take something from my impromptu orgasm. She'd squatted, leaning back with legs obscenely spread. Though the resolution was low, the image a square frame within the 16:9 display, she none the less looked immaculate. A (considering the footage was captured nearly three years previous) fifty-three-year-old goddess, nonchalantly masturbating in the living room of this very house, all in front of a camera.
As the pleasure of my orgasm abated and the cum ceased its flow, I took stock of my situation. What was wrong with me? Like a common pervert I was sneaking around the house, invading privacy and ultimately spoiling her space with my seed. I charged into her bathroom taking care to not leak from my hand and unrolled a large spool of toilet paper, wiping my hand and dick clean of the semen before disposing the evidence in the toilet. More paper and back to the cabinet the television was mounted upon. Her carpet long pile, the cum had soaked into the fibers and obsessively I cleaned the impacted area. Shame descended. I hated myself. What was next, going through her underwear drawer?
Much as I hated to admit to myself then and there, that didn't sound like such a bad thing but chased the thought away as I scrutinized the floor for remnants. The perfect crime, I supposed, I looked back up at the still playing video. A completely different scenario. Dad was obviously holding the camera and Mom wore bikini bottoms and no top. Sunning herself in the back yard upon a beach towel, her skin slick with suntan I watched as Dad aimed the camera downwards and revealed his erection.
With large sunglasses covering her eyes, Mom seemed gleeful as she took his cock in hand and then mouth. I hastily pressed stop on the camera and stood back in absolute shock. A glance across to the box still in the closet. My initial guess as to fifty cassettes seemed to be conservative. The depth suggesting there was possibly closer to double that number, if not more. That was hundreds of hours of footage. I wanted to see all of it. Right then, right there. I could have gladly spent all day going from one tape to the next just to see what she wore, what sex act she performed. But this wasn't possible. My orgasm had been a stark display of how unprepared I was. The only TV in the house that could easily display the camera was in Mom's room. How often would I get this opportunity? I needed a better solution.
*
When I arrived home from the electronics store, Mom's car was in the driveway. It gave my heart a flutter but also filled me with apprehension. Had I placed the tapes back according to how I'd found them? Was there absolutely no trace of my cum on her floor? Would she smell my presence in her room? A sick feeling in my stomach, had I actually flushed the semen filled toilet paper? It was just paranoia. I'd been meticulous in my coverup, I knew that. Even re-entering her room multiple times to be sure no trace was evident.
I HAD removed items however. A whole level of videotapes. My own wrestling tapes rescued from the trash to stand in for the originals. What if she chose today to go through the box? My own cleaning out of the garage inspiring her to spring clean her own closet? I put the thought aside. Again paranoia. Taking a deep breath, I left my car with my newly acquired cables and entered the house. And there she was.
Clearly having not been home long, she remained in her tennis attire and it was now I wondered if her skirt had always been so short? And if so, why hadn't I noticed before now? She sat upon a backless stool at the kitchen bench and fortuitously was leaning over the counter as I entered the room behind her. The pleated white skirt rose off the seat and as she strained to retrieve her phone from the other side of the marble surface, her underwear came into view. Light blue knickers, full backed briefs that looked to be nylon or some other shiny material. "You're home," she noted as I paused momentarily to take in the view, her plump buttocks bulging out the fabric, exposed pale skin of her upper thighs and yes, there it was. The lump of pussy that begged to be inhaled, kissed, fucked.
She sat back down and the temptation was taken away from me. Not before time too, as I felt the stirring of an erection in my shorts. "Yeah, had to go out," I eventually responded as I headed through the kitchen, eager to get to my room and test out my purchase.
"Have you eaten?" She asked before I could vacate and I forced myself to stop and look back. An empty plate before her, she was finishing a mouthful as she looked at her phone, her mouth unpainted just as it'd been in the last images of the video, her lips wrapping around a cock. That did it. My own penis moving inside my pants as blood surged into its length.

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