[The following story is fictional, and all characters are of legal age.]
From my earliest memories, it has always been just my mother and me. She divorced my abusive father when I was just a baby, so she’s been a single working mother raising her only son, occasionally dating but never remarrying or otherwise altering the family dynamic.
It was only with the vantage of adulthood did it occur to me how lonely her life must have been, how unfulfilled was her deep need for romantic love, for a passionate and even physical relationship. That realization began at the end of high school, when she showed me more of her inner life than she perhaps ever intended.
I had just turned 18 earlier that year, but I still followed the routine we had established years before. I still had a strict bedtime on school nights, but on the weekends I could stay up as late as I wanted, so long as I was able to keep up with the chores and yardwork.
I would now frequently stay up later than my mom, reading and playing videogames until she went to bed and afterwards checking out the more adult movies on cable TV, both the trendy, foul-mouthed thrillers and the frankly less artistic softcore porn.
It was late one Friday night that my mom startled me with her latent sexual desire. As she was about to go to bed, she called to me in the den, and I came to meet her at the entrance to the hallway that led to our bedrooms. She had been drinking as usual, but as usual she seemed to have full control of her faculties: she was obviously tired, but one would have to struggle to find the hint of Scotch on her breath.
She wished me goodnight and told me not to stay up too late, and I leaned in to give her a hug and a kiss — a platonic kiss on the lips, as we had done literally thousands of times before.
But this time… this time, she squeezed me şahinbey escort a little too hard, her kiss was a little too firm, and her lips were parted ever so slightly but to me all too noticeably.
Her lips clung to mine, oh so briefly, and she smiled, almost contentedly, as she told me goodnight again and shuffled away down the hall.
I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do or how to react as my fingers touched my lips, the lips that my mother had just kissed, briefly but passionately. I was unlucky in love all through high school, so I had never had a kiss like this one. I didn’t put my thoughts into words, and I couldn’t articulate the fact that my mother had given me my first real kiss — much less would I acknowledge the stirring in my gym shorts.
To distract myself from what just happened, I went straight to watching porn, but every passionate kiss echoed that kiss — that kiss! — a romantic kiss from my own mother, and after I masturbated I couldn’t bring myself to see why my orgasm was so much more powerful.
I had no idea how to respond, no idea what to do about “that kiss,” and so the following morning, I acted as if nothing happened — and so did my mom. Maybe, between being tired and being tipsy, she didn’t even remember what happened, so that Saturday went by without any awkward looks or painful conversations.
But what would happen that night, or some other night, if she kissed me like that again? What if the kiss wasn’t just a one-time thing?
Perhaps it was my youthful stupidity, but I decided that, if she kissed me like that again, I would kiss her right back: the idea was that my eager response would startle her, that she would come back to her senses, and that things would return to normal.
(Maybe I didn’t want things to go back to how they escort şahinbey were, and passionately returning her affection was the obvious way to heighten the romantic tension, but I pushed that thought aside.)
I didn’t have to wait long to put my plan into action. That night, I stayed up late reading in the den — or trying to read while my mind raced to our goodnight routine. As usual, my mom came out of her bedroom and called me to her; as usual, I came to stand beside her at the hallway entry; as usual, she mildly chided me not to stay up late.
We embraced in a hug, her robed body pressing against my youthful physique, clothed in a tee-shirt and shorts.
Then we looked in each other’s eyes, and I leaned down to kiss her puckering lips.
And then, she kissed me as before, passionately, romantically, with her lips slightly parted.
Then… our kiss ended, I looked down into her eyes, and seeing the woman who had loved me my entire life, I leaned down again and kissed her firmly, the way Rhett kissed Scarlett in her favorite movie.
I didn’t part my lips the way she had hers — not at first — but my body showed her all the affection I had for her, more than ever before and more than I had ever considered for our relationship. I wrapped my arm around her waist and drew her into my embrace.
Her eyes didn’t flutter wide open in shock and outrage.
Her lips didn’t stop kissing mine to ask what in the world I was thinking.
And her arms didn’t push me away: instead, she wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling herself to me.
My “plan” seemed to have failed. She kissed me right back, and I kept kissing her, eventually separating my own lips to caress and tug at first her upper lip and then her lower lip. The tip of her tongue slipped out, exploring my şahinbey escort bayan lips and then tentatively pushing its way into my mouth, and my tongue responded by reaching out to touch hers.
Our kiss probably lasted only a minute, but it might as well have been an hour. We stopped, and she opened her eyes, smiling at me and blushing slightly while I felt the heat on my own cheeks. As she brought her arms down from around my neck, her fingers traced my chin and my chest, where I’m sure she felt the pounding of my heart. I unwrapped my arms from her waist, briefly holding her by her hips, so close to her round, athletic ass and a more precious treasure I could hardly name.
Again wishing me goodnight, she turned and walked down the hall, her black hair and her curvy hips swaying in the soft light.
I sighed and quickly turned to the den, a quite urgent matter pressing hard against my shorts. I didn’t need any visual stimulation from the TV, and I didn’t bother to grab a tissue to catch my sperm: leaning against the wall, I shoved my hand down my shorts and thinking about that kiss — that kiss! those lips! that tongue! — I quickly came.
I was shocked by how quickly I climaxed, how powerful the explosion, how much shot out of me like water from a firehose, and how good it felt beating off to the thought of my own mother.
I slumped to the floor. I noticed that my shorts were a mess with a damp spot of the same slippery semen that covered my hand, but that was nothing compared to the whirlwind in my head.
I wanted to kiss my mother like that again, and I wanted much more than that.
For a moment, I remembered her telling me how she taught me to give innocent kisses when I was a little, gently blowing in my face and causing me to pucker my lips. I considered asking her to teach me how to really kiss a girl, how to “make out,” but I rejected the ruse out of hand. It wasn’t fair to her and her feelings, and I wanted much more for myself.
Sitting there in the den, still panting and wearing shorts I would soon have to change, I realized the truth that had overwhelmed me with that first passionate kiss.
I was in love with my mother.