My question is: How did you go from these early yearnings to eventually having sex with your son?
I hope that is not too personal of a question to ask. If it is I apologize for being so presumptuous as to ask it.
Courtney
This time I signed my name, no longer ashamed by my feelings.
I cleaned the house for a bit, and talked to Mom on the phone before I headed into work where my thoughts of incest faded into the back of my mind while the demands of the job took over.
That night, I again was exhausted, and I again decided to check on Paul, who this time was on his computer playing some online game and didn’t even hear me knock.
Entering, I startled him as he had his gaming headphones on. “Mom! Crap, you scared the heck out of me.”
“I thought I’d let you know I’m home,” I said, going to his bed and taking off my shoes.
He turned away from his game, which I took as flattery, as he watched me. I joked, “I think it’s time to get you a girlfriend.”
“Why?” He asked, trying to maintain eye contact with me and yet on more than one occasion taking quick, he thought unnoticeable, glimpses of my legs.
“When I was your age I was going to parties, meeting boys and well,” I shrugged, as I took my first shoe off, “you know.”
“What?” my adorable, but innocent son asked, clearly unable to focus on my words.
“Making out,” I answered. “Plus, I met your dad when I was eighteen, too.”
“You did?” He asked, “You’ve never told me how you and Dad met.”
“It was lust at first sight,” I joked, as I tossed my second shoe on the ground and collapsed backwards onto his bed.
“W-w-what?” He stammered, clearly distracted by both my words and my legs.
I rolled onto my side to face him, my legs stacked onto each other, and said, “You’re eighteen, I guess you’re old enough to hear this, if you can handle your old bag of a mother telling you about her young, wild days.”
I noticed him adjust himself, which made me smile knowing the impact I was having on him. He said, “Mom, you’re not old. You’re only forty and look even younger.”
“Over twice the age of the girls in your school,” I pointed out.
Being the sweetheart he is, and a man way beyond his years, he countered, “Oh Mom, you still look like you are in your twenties.”
“Oh, I love you for lying to me,” I smiled, wiggling my toes.
“I’m not lying,” he replied.
“So do you want to hear the story of how your father and I met?” I asked.
“Of course,” he nodded.
“It’s a bit spicy. I don’t want you to lose respect for your mother. I was a lot different in high school than I am now,” I warned, wanting him to want to hear about his mom’s sex life.
“I’ll never lose respect for you Mom,” He answered.
“Even if you learn your mother was kind of a slut in her younger years?” I asked, frankly, trying to plant more seeds of my eagerness.
“Mom!” He gasped.
“Well, I was,” I admitted, sitting back up.
“I can’t believe you called yourself a slut,” he said, clearly surprised.
Standing up, I said laughing, “Maybe you’re right, hearing about your mother’s slut days is probably in the way too much information category for any son.”