Massage leads to sex between mother and son

Massage leads to sex between mother and son

She didn’t know why she had left her panties off. She didn’t even think about it really.

She was just going into his room to say goodnight. It was not unusual. She was wearing her nightgown. She was ready for bed herself. It was not unusual at all.

She went to his room just to say goodnight, nothing more. She had not seen him in several weeks since he’d gone off to college. She had missed him. She was very happy to have him home for the holiday.

She knocked before entering. It was simple courtesy, long established as the norm for them. Whether his door was open or shut, that is what she would do. She would knock. He gave her the same courtesy any time he went to her room.

She sat on the side of his bed and gazed at him lovingly. He had been lying on his back, reading. When she entered, he closed his book and gazed at her, noting how beautiful she looked in her silky nightgown. Her curvy form was not altogether obscured. It played gracefully just behind the light fabric, drawing his eye, piquing his interest.

He wore no shirt, she noted, but the bed covers were sufficient, covering him from the waist down. She observed, with carefully restrained interest, that he had developed into a fine, young man, very fit, very good looking.

“I am so glad you’re home,” she told him softly, her hand reaching out to brush his cheek.

“Me too,” he assured her, a slight smile across his handsome face. He gazed at her face, her full lips, that beautiful smile of hers, the little wrinkles by her sparkling, loving eyes. Did he have something on his mind, she wondered.

She gazed back. He was so handsome, her beautiful little boy, now a young man. Of age. Now why did she think about that, she wondered, as she sunk down onto the bed, reclining beside him, tousling his hair with her right hand, studying his face. So handsome.

Her eyelids were heavy in her contentment. She closed them, about to doze off. She wanted to be with him, to linger, and savor his presence. She’d missed him terribly. She felt that she could just lie there with him all night.

He had been the man of the house for years now. She had no other. She cherished him. Her left hand caressed his arm, lazily petting him from wrist to shoulder and back and again, her fingertips just brushing his bare ribcage. He smelled a little musky, manly. She sighed, then kissed his cheek softly, settling her face into his pillow, her breath in his ear. He set his book aside and lay perfectly still, feeling her breast pressing slightly against his shoulder, stirring his groin. He thought carefully about just what he should do now.


“Hmm?” she breathed softly.

“Remember the face massages?”

The thought snapped her back to full wakefulness.

“Yes, sweety, I remember,” she said, raising herself up on her elbow, ready, as always, to meet his needs.

“I think college has been making me a little tense,” he suggested, stopping at that, waiting, wondering.

“You want a massage?” she asked, smiling happily.

“It would be nice.”

“We have not done that since you were little.”

“Yeah, I guess … I don’t know.”

He did know, though. It stopped with puberty, with the changes he was experiencing, his growing anxiety about females. And then his father left, and she became distant for a time, and there were no more massages. They were forgotten, until now. Now, that is what he wanted, and so he asked.

She sat up and leaned over him, her breasts sagging down, almost reaching his bare chest. She pressed her thumbs to his forehead then pulled them across in opposite directions along the scalp line, finishing with a little swirl around each temple. It was awkward, though, from this position. To massage a face, one needs the correct angle. She considered her options. She could make him scooch down a little letting her sit in the place of his pillow, his head resting in her lap as she usually did when he was little. But she reasoned that she did not need to disturb him, possibly increasing his tension. Instead, she carefully swung her left leg across him, then sat down, straddling his thighs. He glimpsed her pubis as she made the transit and noted that she did not wear panties. His tension increased. His manhood responded excitedly.

Once in the correct position, she again placed her thumbs against the middle of his forehead, at the scalp line, and started over. She slowly dragged her thumbs across his forehead to his temples, circling each firmly, then back to his forehead, just a little further below the scalp, and made the transit again, and again, slowly, very deliberately, working her way down to his cheeks, then his jaw.

He lay still, not making a sound. The tension? Well, that was another matter. He was young, barely eighteen. He was preoccupied by all things sexual. The simple fact of an attractive woman, pantyless in her negligée, straddling his lower body, was having a predictable effect. He was not troubled by her age or the fact that she was his mother. In fact, he felt that he nearly had her where he wanted her, and his hopes were ascending rapidly. He struggled to be patient, yet he knew he had to take the lead in this daring little dance.

Subtly, he worked the covers down from his waist. She was so intent on her work, she did not notice. But time was fleeting, and a crisis rapidly approached. She was massaging his chin now, nearly done. If he was to get his way, he was running out of time. He needed to take action, but he knew he had to go slowly, not alarm her, to draw her in, get her to a point where she could not turn back.

He very gently placed his hands on her hips. She felt his touch. She was not altogether surprised at the thrill it gave her and the effects she felt in her body. Her nipples swelled. Her stomach fluttered. Her vagina moistened. She chose not to dwell on those physical responses to his touch. She was enjoying this little game he seemed to be playing with her, the little indulgences, the excitement of tempting fate.

It had been a very long time since her husband had left. A long, lonely time. She swallowed and slowed the pace of the massage, keeping the passing time at bay as best she could, maintaining the moment, the lovely, intimate moment that slowly unfolded for them.

He now put just a tiny bit of pressure on her backside, slightly pulling her forward. She allowed just a little adjustment of her position, giving way to his urging, almost imperceptibly, but definitely giving in to him, at least a little.

But she did not give in entirely. Not yet. Nor did he try to force the issue. He kept his urgings subtle, just enough to make progress, but not enough to set off alarms.

She finished the massage and paused, thinking about the loving feelings she was having toward him and how the intimate moment could soon pass. Then, she asked him, barely audibly, almost whispering, “Was that enough? Want me to do it again?”

“Yes,” he breathed.

She put her thumbs back onto his forehead and began again, the adjustment causing her bottom to inch just a little further up his legs. He pushed on the covers some more as she moved. The tip of his erect penis just emerging from beneath the top sheet. Were she to look down there, she would see, but she did not. She was looking at his face, the handsome, young, much-loved face she was massaging.

Something in her expression encouraged him to press ahead a bit more. He began to caress her ass ever so slightly. She barely seemed to notice, sighing only a little at his gentle, loving touch.

He was encouraged still further by the sound, however slight, but he held back, letting her massage him, waiting patiently, then squeezing just a little more. Another little sigh. “I think you are misbehaving,” she observed casually, her voice sounding hoarse.

That encouraged him even more. He was almost ready to make his move. She was halfway down his face again, but being very deliberate, taking her time. His tension was not reduced in the least, but they played their game out.

She worked her thumbs across his upper lip and up over his cheeks, then gave that little swirl around his temples, the best part always; and as she swirled, he pulled against her bottom, firmly but still gently, and again she inched forward just a little. She gave another little sigh, as if accepting something, resigning herself. Her breathing became audible to him. He was again encouraged and released her butt so he could push the covers further down, and expose himself more fully. She felt his movements, and raised herself slightly, letting it happen, but, otherwise, she chose to ignore the liberties he was taking. It was nothing, she told herself, avoiding responsibility.

She tried to settle her breath. The massage was coming soon to its inevitable end. Some things are just inevitable, she thought to herself. You can’t control everything.

She remained coy about her exact intent. He again pushed at the covers. She felt it and knew precisely what was happening, and she raised herself up just a bit again, allowing the inevitable to unfold, as if she had no intentions of her own, as if she could not stop him from exposing himself, from anything at all that he might choose to do.

She finished the massage and, without a word, without a clear thought, she untied the bow at the top of her nightgown, revealing the fullness of her cleavage. Then she moved her hands to his shoulders, squeezing, feeling his power. She leaned forward to kiss his forehead, and her neckline fell completely open, exposing her naked breasts to his view. She kissed him softly on the forehead, then on his nose, her lips close to his own. She considered dropping further down, pressing their lips together, but thought it too much, not quite right just now.

She raised back up to look again at his face, now flushed, with tinges of red on his cheeks. Her breasts swayed before his eager eyes. They were heavy and full and hung there, tantalizing him. He licked his lips and gawked, and she allowed him to do so for a minute or two. Then, she tucked her head down, and finally looked at his nakedness, throbbing beneath her, observing that her own steaming nakedness was only a few short inches away from his.

She tilted her head back upward and arched her back slightly, pushing her hips forward. He could see now that she was open to him, though he sensed that he must still go slow, not rush, let her succumb to the inevitable at her pace. He put his hands back onto her ass, this time beneath her nightgown, feeling her bare skin. He had never touched her bare ass before. She gasped aloud, but said nothing.

He listened to her breathing, still more audible, faster, excited. “I love you, Mom,” he whispered hoarsely. She closed her eyes, savored the moment, the closeness, the love.

“I love you too, baby,” she whispered back. She was as stiff as his manhood was, her back still arched, her head back, her eyes closed, her thoughts confused, a muddle. Her intentions were still eluding her conscious thoughts. But her body made demands on her that she could not refuse.

He squeezed her bare ass firmly with his hands, and again she gasped. He pulled again and her wet bottom came into contact with his scrotum. She could feel his full testicles resting on his thighs, and she felt that she wanted to rub herself against them, but she held back, still not fully acknowledging her intentions, the inevitability of the thing they would do.

He knew his own intentions clearly, though, his desire to couple with her, to make love with his beautiful, sexy mom. He pulled again. She moved forward again, almost against her own will, practically incapable of stopping him. She could now feel his erection against her steaming labia, but she held back still, not yet fully willing to take him.

He began to rock his hips then, feeling himself sliding up and down in the helpless wetness of a mother in heat. He slid himself back and forth, exciting her swollen clitoris, tantalizing her aching, hungry vagina, making her desperate for more. She’d become incapable of stopping herself.

“We shouldn’t,” she protested. He responded by pulling her forward just a little more. She feigned resistance, but now felt the head of his penis against her open, sopping vaginal canal and knew finally, inevitably, that she would yield.

“We shouldn’t,” she said again, even as she raised herself up just a little. This, finally, was his chance. The moment had arrived. She was his to take. She could no longer enforce her own protestations. He pushed himself up against her and slid himself up into her. There was no resistance. He went fully into her in one easy push. Again, she gasped, then she yielded altogether, lay down atop him and began to kiss him on the mouth saying over and over, as if in explanation of her actions, “I love you, baby. So much. Sooo much!”

Then, she simply started fucking him, rocking her hips with deep pleasure, bouncing up and down on his abdomen, feeling his hardness sliding inside her, pleasuring herself and him, giving in to the inevitable.

It was not long at all before she began to cum, moaning in deepest satisfaction at her first intercourse in so many years. The guttural, lustful sounds she made were all he needed, all he could handle, and he filled her bottom with powerful jets of thick, hot semen, groaning his love for his mother, his lover.

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