Caught – Chapter 3A

Incest stories: Caught – Chapter 3A

From chapter 2:

I couldn’t believe that after all this, the harshness had returned. I smiled and tucked my wet dick back into my shorts. Nothing she could say now could ruin my mood.

Then Mom did something else that shocked me. She slid off the hood of the car and dropped down to her knees in front of me again. She pulled me to her by the front of my shorts.

“You’ll probably want to do some more sick shit to me after your Dad leaves for the Golf Course tomorrow, Won’t you?”

She griped as she exposed my tired, sticky dick. She glided the tip of one finger down its slimy length as it hung semi-soft in front of her. She twirled her finger around the sloppy head a few times then rubbed her thumb and finger together. She looked like she was in deep thought as she watched her fingers sliding back and forth together.

“Something depraved …Like fuck me on the kitchen table or cum on my face, I bet. . .” She hissed, staring at my prick the entire time she bitched.

She wrapped her fingers around my wet, semi-hard dick and pulled at it roughly, angrily, stretching it. It didn’t really hurt but her attitude kinda caught me by surprise.

“This is incest…” She reminds me. “You’re sick…” She growled as she took me in her mouth again. I leaned back on the hood of the car and let her suck my dick clean.

Chapter 3:

I woke up pretty early considering how late I got to bed the night before. Already my head was spinning with the memories of yesterday and the prospects yet to come. To be honest with you, I thought that maybe all of yesterday might have just been a dream.

I smelled coffee. I checked the clock; 7:20. I was sure my Dad had showered and eaten breakfast by 7:00. With little doubt, he’d already grabbed his clubs and was on his way to the golf course to hit little balls with funny little sticks.

I couldn’t help but wonder what the day might bring. Maybe HOPE would be a better word. I assumed my Mom was awake and was pretty curious to see what her reaction might be to the night before.

I couldn’t see why we just couldn’t enjoy our new-found………relationship. I mean, she’d made her point. She wanted me to “know” that she was totally against such immoral and deviant activities …Fine. She wanted me to “know” that she was not a willing participant; she was being “forced” to participate in this disgusting incestuous liaison…Fine. If pushing the blame off on me helped her do that―Then fine. I could live with that. No problem. I just wanted to do more stuff with my mom. It seemed pretty simple to me. I’m sure that was my dick thinking for me but sometimes my dick had quite a head on its shoulder.

I realize that I was only 17, but I’d never experienced anything like the rush; the bold-face, undeniable shiver of excitement that shot through me when my mother gave in to the lust. There are no words. You could have dipped my balls in gasoline and lit them on fire for all I cared……as long as she was the one rubbing the Neosporin on them when all was said and done.

She had put up a good front and I was hoping we could get past all the bullshit now and just enjoy the moment…or moments; lots and lots of moments. Of course, the BOX being Giant Stadium and the MOMENTS being the lint I pick out of my belly-button.

I threw a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt on and headed down stairs to put a toe in the water so-to-speak. I truly hoped she was in a good mood.

I was both shocked and delighted as I walked into the kitchen. Mom was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and the morning paper. She looked like she was ready to have her picture taken for the cover of Cosmo… …or make a porn movie.

My first thought was, “Fuckin’ ‘A’, she’s as happy about this whole thing as I am and Dad’s out tying to play golf.

She looked like she’d gotten up this morning ready to play the part; ready to play the hot mom that gives in to her desires―The stunning MILF waiting for the unsuspecting pizza guy― There was gunna be no bullshit this time and I can’t tell you how happy I was. My dick squirmed his approval.

Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, tied with a long, thin, red ribbon. She had her glasses on but I could see that her eye make-up was much darker then last night; much darker than it usually is. Her lashes were long and thick with mascara. Her full lips were the color of the ribbon that held her hair back. She had a like blue house dress on that, for some reason, kinda reminded me of Leave It to Beaver’s mom except as I remember, Beaver’s mom never showed much tit on that show. Mom had unbuttoned the first two buttons at the top of her dress, allowing a beautiful view of her cleavage and the fleshy roundness of her large tits; enough so that it was clear she had no bra on. If that wasn’t enough, I could see the outline of her nipples as they clearly pushed on the relatively thin material of the dress. {Something else I believe June Cleaver never showed.}

Her dress was pretty short, five or six inches above her knee, showing a great deal of leg. Her legs were long and smooth. My eyes followed them all the way down under the table to her feet. She was bare footed and her toenails were painted the same color as her beautiful lips. It was clear she’d spent some time this morning getting ready…But ready for what?

I was trying desperately not to get hard. I wanted to be a little cooler than that. I wanted to at least appear like I had some self-control. Although I guess my performance yesterday on the couch might have distorted that conception somewhat.

“Morning,” I said lightly as I made my way to the cupboard for a glass.

She looked up from her paper, scrutinizing me silently for a few long seconds,

“Morning.” She replied rather coldly and returned to her paper.

I felt the temperature drop 10°. Perhaps I’d misjudged the weather a bit. It felt like there was a good chance of squalls up ahead. I suppose her memories of yesterday were not quite as fond as mine.

I poured a glass of juice and sat down cautiously at the table across for her. I felt like I was sitting my bare ass down on a hand grenade wondering how I was gunna clean up this mess if it went off. For a second I wondered if that was the kinda mess that could even BE cleaned up.

“Going somewhere this morning?” I asked her as peaceably as possible.

“No”

“Ummm…” She didn’t appear to be in a talkative mood.

“Why?” She added without looking up from her paper.

“I don’t know, you just look like you’re ready to go somewhere.”

She looked up from her paper, tilted her head down slightly, and looked at me over the frames of her glasses.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” She asked.

“Wow!” I thought.

“Nothing.” I told her defensively. “It’s just . . . the way you look.”

“The way I… LOOK?

“Well, yeah…I mean….”

She let the paper drop on the table and focused her full attention on me. I shut up, swallowed hard and shifted my weight around on that hand grenade.

“And how, exactly, do I… ‘LOOK ?

I guessed we weren’t finished with the bullshit after all. I somehow felt that maybe she should be reading a copy of, I’m OK You’re OK or Sybil or maybe something on the terrors of PMS, instead of the morning paper. Maybe a couple of pamphlets on anger management would be nice.

{On a side-bar: Mom isn’t like this with just me, she gives Dad his appropriate share of bitching when needed. Evidently, I was getting the lion’s share. She wasn’t always like this. I’m not sure what happened to spawn this version of my mom but I remember a time when she was relatively pleasant and caring most of the time. I think I was in the fifth or sixth grade…}

“Well, you look really…” She stared me down “…Really great like that. I just figured you were going out, that’s all.” I told her but I was pretty sure she wasn’t planning on going out like that…I mean unless there was a Pornography convention going on in town that I didn’t know about. Maybe the advocates for legalizing prostitution were having a rally I was unaware of.

“I look ‘great’ like THAT?” She repeated. “What do you mean― ‘LIKE THAT’? Like WHAT Robert?”

I wasn’t sure what to say. Where was all this hostility coming from? Jesus, I thought. I get caught ONE TIME jerking off on the living-room couch and shit hits the fan. You would have thought I’d got caught jumping up and down on her bed with dog shit on my shoes. For fuck sake! I didn’t know what her problem was and it was starting to get tiresome. She was quickly snatching away my good morning.

“Is there something wrong with the way I look?” She questioned me.

What was I gunna say to that? Even if there was something wrong with the way she looked {And there wasn’t} I’d have to be brain dead {Or maybe Larry The Cable Guy} to even mention it.

“No, no Mom, not at all. I just mean you look really pretty, beautiful as a matter-of-fact , you know. . .Hot? You’d really turn heads walking down the street.”

“Walking down the street?”

“Yeah.”

“Like a whore? You think I look like a whore!?!” She asked angrily. “Is that what you’re trying to say Robert? Is THAT what you think of me now? You think your mother is a WHORE?” She stared at me waiting for an answer.

I felt like the fat little kid that just got caught eating everybody’s lunch.

“No! No! Of course not…No…” I was floundering; already looking for the closest exit. “… I mean you look like a…a…a movie star or something.” I tried to explain as best I could as I wondered how the fuck the conversation had gone from Good-morning to “I think you’re a whore.”

“Oh…” She paused.

I took a breath while she rubbed her pretty lips together.

“Like the star of one of those movies you like to watch in my living room, is that what kind of movie star you mean?” She snipped and stared at me with her pretty blue eyes.

If I’d seen this mood-swing coming…I could have ducked.

The truth was that Mom looked as hot as any centerfold I’d ever seen. My mind wandered for a moment. I pictured my Mom in the pages of Playboy and under the first picture―

Kat― A forty three year old Para-Legal from New Jersey.

Her turn offs are working, cleaning the house and the sound of laughter.