Her hand went to the groin of his brown tweed pants, obviously finding him hard. There was no real surprise on his behalf when she raised her dress and climbed upon his lap. The sex perfunctory, almost without passion as she seemingly brought herself to orgasm. “Did you cum?” The woman asked him and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat thankful the relative darkness of the cinema obscured my blushing face.
Onscreen the actress stroked her son to climax. Nothing was shown of course but the implication was graphic nonetheless. The movie was pretty bad, the subject matter uncomfortable at best, but it didn’t prevent me from getting an erection, and considering the circumstances that fact alone was embarrassing to say the least.
The scene ended and from the corner of my eye I attempted to look at my mother seated next to me in the theatre. Was she as uncomfortable as me, I wondered? How could she not? An onscreen mother and son engaged in an incestuous relationship. The movie poster suggested nothing of the sort. Julianne Moore, that Eddie…something guy from, I don’t know…stuff! It had looked so legit.
The strange thought arose in my mind. Did Mom know? She certainly hadn’t acted as if she had I recalled from our conversation in the foyer, surveying the posters and session times to decide upon what we’d see. My cock was in a terrible position, desperately needing to be re-adjusted and ever so casually I moved a hand down from the armrest to my groin. Did Mom’s gaze follow? I delayed moving my hard-on despite the urgent need in case she suspected something. What? I reasoned. That I was going to get out my cock and masturbate in a semi crowded theatre to mother and son incest?
I scoffed at my thought process and moved my dick to a far more comfortable position just as Mom leaned into my ear. Oh no! I thought. She’s seen it. She’s noticed how turned on I’d become by the film and was about to chastise me. An entirely different scenario entered my head. No. She wants to touch it. The movie awakened something in her and she wants to fuck me. Jerk me off me just as had been done in the movie. Mere milliseconds passed as my brain predicted the future. I should learn to never listen to my brain.
“Can you pass the popcorn?” Mom breathed into my ear, coming up with a third scenario that I hadn’t even fathomed. Idiot.
“Oh, yeah,” I whispered back, passing the box across from the opposite armrest to her.
She hadn’t seen my erection. Probably hadn’t even noticed my hand go down to move it. And why? Because she was a normal person, not a sexually frustrated twenty one year old obsessing about fake onscreen relationships. I bet Mom hadn’t equated the characters in the movie to our own relationship at all.
Or had she?
Losing interest in the plot I ran my own fantasies through my head. That old chestnut of putting a hole in the bottom of the popcorn box; inserting my cock. Mom’s hand reaching in and finding my dick. Hard. Hard for her. Jesus. What was I thinking? One, (well, a few) scenes of incest in a film and now I’m fantasising about my own mother. Cut it out Lincoln, I told myself. But the feeling of her breath beside my ear remained. The goosebumps it had given me. I placed my left arm back up on the armrest and it connected with hers. She didn’t pull away. My hard-on remained.
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