The Powder Keg

Literotic asexstories – The Powder Keg by DolceAngelo,DolceAngelo A lot of children, even those grown, complain about their parents. It’s understandable. Natural, even. We learn as we grow older and we judge our parents through our modern lens, rejecting them in our minds for being too cold, too smothering, too distant, too demanding, too uncaring… the canned critiques go on. Really, a lot of those internet whine sessions would stop if they realized their parents probably weren’t that bad.

Of course, they also haven’t met my mother. Enter Betty. 42. My mother, a pretty, warm and sweet-looking lady who breaks that suburban housewife beauty mold by having an actual job. She and I have been alone since as far back as I can remember, really only having a few second cousins in terms of family. Dad – well, “my father” – was an alcoholic who we left in the dust when I was about 5.

As you could expect, she’s helicopter mom to the max. Behind her bewitching oak-brown eyes is the mind of a dictator, a manipulator. Not the authoritative and commanding, type, no – a player of the heartstrings. She’d mope and interrogate if I mentioned any girls or staying out past a curfew. Whining in that sing-songy, fake melodious voice about me leaving her and paying less attention to her.

It’d make more sense for her to be that intense if at least she was here most of the time. She works at a high end restaurant, and the money has more than kept us afloat, but I was never really her priority until it came to control. She pretends to love me, but that – and every aspect of her appearance and demeanor, from her flawlessly curled eyelashes to her gentle, inviting smile to the lines of her cleavage that tease an ever-unattainable glimpse of more – is an act. It has to be.

And here I am… in a long, dark, hot hallway. I feel something around my neck… a long wire, or leash, dragging me into a speaking darkness. Forcing me to walk slowly… against my will. Odd… I don’t feel a pull. To my left and right, endless doors, Weirdly placed. All with no doorknobs.

I continued forward, the voice continuing to mumble as if from an entirely different room or hallway. The words, or word, now discernible: “Da..vey… Davey…”. It was calling my name. Somehow, I felt compelled to walk faster, the hallway’s warmth and humidity evolving into a more burning sensation, almost as if I were drawing closer to a house fire.

With every step now, the darkness receded to reveal more and more of a figure. It was… her. Mom. Mommy. My mother. Clad in nothing but her clear skin, a silver tiara with a crimson gemstone, and a pair of mint green flip flops. Sitting on a red, winged chair and resting her feet on what seemed like a stool. With one, she played at the string of the sandal with her big toe and second toe, threatening to slip it off and reveal her sleek, perfect sole, but torturing me by not pushing beyond the point of falling. The other foot she laid flat, spreading her toes out and lifting her sole off the shoe just barely so that I could see more of it.

I’m disgusted, but something takes over me. A need, a passion, a fire. A desire to look and to savor. My eyes leave her pink toes and follow her legs up to see her right hand with two fingers in herself, using their base to rub her clit. Farther north even, her perfect breasts, inviting… no, commanding my mouth to them.

“Davey… honey!” Rang out again, muffled.

I picked up my pace and the darkness receded even more to reveal what her left hand was doing.

An upward and downward rhythmic motion as it clasped around something. A penis that looked… agonizingly hard. I could almost feel the sensations of her movements on myself, and for a few seconds stopped moving to moan and savor them. I then opened my eyes to see the man’s face.

My face.

“David, hun, wake up!”

The walls, all their doors, the chair and stool, my mom and the other “me” all condensed into a blur, in which I could for a fraction of a second only see my mother closing her eyes and moaning in ecstasy.

I shot up, eyes open.

Through the morning haze, a pair of sharp oak-brown eyes beamed at me, decorated by the slim and elegant crow’s feet of a working woman.

“Pretty…” I thought amidst confusion, still in a daze for a couple seconds as my view clarified.

“David, it’s almost 11, you’re gonna miss your only class!” It was my mom’s voice. Her face came into view rapidly, and I saw she had a sincere but somewhat mocking smile on her face. “I made you breakfast, a spinach tortilla just like you like. That class is long, so I don’t want you fainting halfway, sweetie. You had a long night so I snuck out of bed about… 3 hours ago! Up now!”

She giggled, ruffled my hair and gave me two long forehead smooches. I caught a whiff of her flowery skin lotion and, as she straightened up to walk away, the briefest glimpse of her breasts hanging down, complete to the pinkish-red nipple. I felt a pulse shoot through my body, from the base of my groin out. Then, disgust and shame that I had to hide.

“Alright, mom. Thanks.” I was dry. I always am. She always does these big gestures. I kind of brush them off – they feel a little insincere and I don’t really know how to react. I hoist off the blanket and, as I rose, she turned around to speak: “Oh, by the way…”

But for some reason, after looking me up and down in a brief moment, she paused. “Uh, never mind. Just go freshen up and I’ll meet you in the kitchen, hun!”

She walked away slowly, and my treacherous eyes couldn’t help but wander to her waistband, over which the tiniest glimpse of her purple panties were visible. My dick twitched again, and I realized I felt a little irritation on its head. I looked down and saw it straining just barely past the waistband of my tight shorts, my bulge completely outlined up to my tip, from which droplets and streaks of milky whiteness were falling. I had a massive wet spot forming at the front of my shorts, too.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!

I ran into the bathroom, jolted awake, and douched myself off in a hurry before changing my clothes out. This isn’t the first time I wake up like this. But is it the first time she sees me? Sees it?

I’m disgusted, but fixated on the thought as I cleanse my face in the mirror. I see myself… frazzled, but you know, a little handsome.

My name is David. I’m a second year electrical engineering student at the nearby community college, soon due for a transfer. I’ve always been an excellent student, winning a lot of scholarships and acceptances to universities out of state, but I decided to stay here in Cali. 25% my choice, 75% my mom’s. People ask me what exactly she said or did to make me stay… I can’t really remember, or really name it. But I’d look at her and feel like it was wrong to leave. To leave her. Even if she said she wanted me to, she was lying and luring me to stay with her. I decided to do as she wanted and stay. Somehow, I’m glad I decided to, but it still makes me angry. I know, I confuse myself too.

Speaking of living with mom, the money she makes at the restaurant isn’t even enough to get us out of this cramped 1-bedroom apartment; sleek and modern, but a bit cramped and suffocating, especially since we have to share a bed. We’re in Ventura, too, so prices around aren’t really friendly either. Since I started college, I’ve been using some of my scholarship money to go half on rent. She’s taken some hours off the restaurant since, and as expected, we’ve gotten even closer. I do harbor some resentment for her being scarce earlier in my life. But to myself, I confess the change has made me quite happy. I’m stumped as to why it has, and why it has to such an extent, so I kind of don’t show it too much. At some point, I also realized I had more than enough money to buy a basic bed frame and twin sized mattress so we could sleep separately.

Neither of us ever brings it up.

I got ready in my room with an outfit worthy of community college: sneakers, basketball shorts, and a graphic tee. Exemplary.

Now down at the little kitchen table, I was ready to chow down – she makes a mean niche tortilla, I’ll give her that. She was in the living room, not too far from me, watching the morning news – depression central. I’m not sure how much attention she was paying. She looked relaxed, with her feet up, wiggling her toes around slightly. Her pretty pink-painted toes. She turns around to talk to me and I refocus, startled.

“You know, David, those little hostesses you met last week say you’re really cute. They’re so bold nowadays… did you know they asked for your number?! I said NO! After all, no one snatches mommy’s genius…”

Extremely corny and awkward as usual. But against my will, I blushed a little. Really, deep down I know she has to hate it when I date or girls want to date me. I kind of steer clear of a lot of opportunities as a result. I feel a weird sense of duty to her… and a lot of other emotions I can’t really describe. Still, I don’t like the loss of freedom, I think.

“Uhhhh… right, Mom.” I said between bites. She teased me for blushing. “If I was just a few years younger… just kidding! I’m sure you’ll find a cute woman after college. She just won’t cook as good!” She gave a sincere smile and turned back toward the TV.

I finished my breakfast and loaded everything into the dishwasher. I got my keys and went to the door to leave, where my Mom always hands me my bag.

“Sorry I had to cancel tonight, Davey. I have a long day today, so if you get home and I’m asleep, we’ll talk tomorrow. Saturdays are nice for a walk too… so leave tomorrow open!” She kissed my cheek goodbye and bid me farewell with an “I love you.”

“See you, Mom. I love you.” A strange wave of relief washed over me. I needed a little space to think about the dreams I’ve been having, the emotions swirling around somewhere in me. But whenever I tell her “I love you” – without a “too”, so it’s not said as an expected response – I feel like I let escape a few drops of whatever is beating around in me, decreasing the pressure a bit. I guess I mean, in a very simplified way, it feels great to say – but is only the beginning of a tome’s worth of what I truly wanted to tell her. And it always has to suffice.

It makes me a little resentful, honestly… like she stokes fires in me on purpose. I don’t quite know how to vocalize it.

In any case, it was indeed likely I would miss her today, as I had class and then would go to a nearby steakhouse with the boys to celebrate a nearing semester wrap-up. Then, we’d go to my friend Adrian’s house to watch UFC reruns and drink. Classic college, while still living at home.

Between the infernal three hour lecture and eating, though, I had a biweekly therapy session – something I’d kept a secret from Mom. I’d been seeing Dr. Roble since the beginning of last spring semester, when my dreams and uncontrollable thoughts had intensified into something more voracious. As far as she knows, I’m just struggling with a deep attraction to an older woman I can’t be with. At least, that’s what I think she thinks. I wouldn’t call it attraction… that’s probably what my Mom would want.

I took notes during my lecture – differential equations, to be exact – attentive as usual, but was more looking forward to my appointment with Dr. Roble. I had a quiet spot I’d always go to before logging onto the call with her, as the things I say are without a doubt not for ears unknown.

Last we spoke, Dr. Roble and I left off on how my desires manifested in my daily life. I had to be sincere. I had vivid sexual dreams, both at night and real daydreams, and found sexual intent in everything this devious older woman told me. I told her a bit of detail, such as the power fantasies in these dreams – where I would be beckoned or controlled by her, reduced to her toy. Often, it would both arouse and disgust me to give her any details, but she did open some cracks in that.

My go-to line with her is “I feel/want X but I hate that/am scared of that/am disgusted by that because Y.” X usually being this older woman (my mom) and Y being “it is/feels wrong.” But with Dr. Roble, I feel slightly less disgust.

“You’re not the only boy your age to feel this way, David. It sounds like you’re close to her on a regular basis, and you find her attractive. Even if a closer bond is, as you say, ‘impossible’, your feelings are natural. You are a healthy, caring man with desires and feelings. I want us to establish this going forward.”

“O-okay.”

“Now, you say you’re scared of these feelings because they’re forbidden. Your connection can not further develop because of the connection you already have. But what kind of connection do you have? Is she perhaps…”

As she went on, my mind was screaming. “She’s my fucking MOM! She teases me, tortures me, loves me, controls me, I love her, no I don’t, FUCK!”

“…make love to your mother…”

“U-um, excuse me?” I was astounded.

“Sorry, I said if you can’t love one, maybe love another. I’m unsure if your fixation comes from a lack of novelty. We’ll get to the bottom of this in future sessions. I’m glad you confide in me David, and you’re in good hands here. I’m going to keep taking you in fully covered my insurance. We’ll talk more next time.”

“Alright… thanks, doc.”

With that, we logged off the call.

“Worship your mother.”

The words rang in my brain despite a complete silence around me. And like a fire reduced only to a flicker that grows hungrier still, they would reignite and resurface whenever I tried to push them down.

Whatever. I have plans today.

And the plans went as usual. Bored (and ready to burst in many ways) being cooped up at home, I was more than ready to see my friends. The steak was good. The talk was funny. The matches were interesting. The shit talk was spicy. But that’s all I can muster to describe my time with them – one-word adjectives, as all my real thoughts and analysis flow elsewhere in my brain, making sense of desires forbidden. I couldn’t even turn them off in the presence of friends anymore.

I arrived home at about 10. I stepped into the room to find my mom, freshly showered and deep asleep facing a dimmed and quiet TV set to Sex and the City. In the flickering lights of the TV, she looked so serene, so gorgeous and pristine. She had her hair in a messy bun, and had her right arm horizontal across her eyes to protect them from the light as she snored the slightest bit. Her left arm weakly held the TV remote. She had changed into a tighter shirt with a NASA logo, which was the tiniest bit see through so I could make out the white and the curves of her breasts, which had parted to either side. Traveling downward, she was now wearing black sweatpants, with matching black panties peering slightly over the waist.

And at the bottom, her silky smooth soles, stacked, basking in the intermittent light of the TV that would make the silver ring on her left second toe glimmer. I stopped and stared in shameful arousal. How I wish she would just admit she wants me all to herself, to own me, use me, control me. Rather than torturing me with suggestion, teasing, and even the scent emanating from her form… her body, that divine form.

I snapped out of it when she groaned slightly. She didn’t move at all. I wondered if she was dreaming, too, for a split second. Now in clarity, I removed my laptop from my bag and placed it on the desk before turning off the TV carefully and going to take a quick shower. I set the water to cold and showered with the lights off, only lighting a candle on the windowsill. More refreshed, I dried off and pat-dried my hair too before brushing it back.

In that moment, in my nakedness, an idea occurred to me. Mom is asleep. What if… I just stepped back into the room, nude? Exposed, in the dark of night, my manhood to her? The manhood that longed for her scent, her touch, her wetness, for her? My mind was overcome by revulsion… but my body, with desire. My feet moved forward and out the door, disobeying my brain’s commands.

In the low light, I could see that my mom had turned to face away from the bathroom door in her sleep, leaving only her backside in my view, barely illuminated by the quiet moonlight. My member, already stiff, throbbed and dripped as my eyes darted between her perky ass and beautiful smooth soles.

“Worship your mother. Pump for your mother.”

The voice in my head boomed louder than ever. My right hand, as if commanded by it, began stroking my length, lubricated slightly by trails of precum bubbling from the head. Every arrival of my hand at the base shot another wave of ecstasy through my body. Before my wet dream last night, I hadn’t had true release in weeks, so I was still quite sensitive.

No, fuck! This is what she wants… to control me… to enslave me… to…

“Buck for your mother. Writhe for your mother.”

The booming voice took over again. My mind played slide after slide of vivid visions of me eating my mom’s pussy from the back, worshiping her flawless, smooth arches and finally, her riding me as I struggled against strong ropes binding me to the bed. Our bed.

“Nut for your mother. Spill your seed for your mother.”

As if decreed by the firm, almost doctor-ly voice, I reached my orgasm, stifling deep moans beneath rapid breaths and an earth shattering ecstasy rippled through me. My ropes shot directly up and back down, coalescing in a lake of tangible proof that I desired my mother. In my mind, I was filling my mother up with my seed, powerless – nay, unwilling – to stop her from claiming what was hers. Unprotected.

As the rapid thrusting of my hips slowed down, I was almost overwhelmed by guilt, as if I had wronged myself. Why did I let my mother’s ways overcome me and carve such thoughts into my mind? Had I lost? And if so, why did I want to lose more?

I stealthily wiped my fluids off the wooden floor, put some clothes on, and went to bed. A storm of thoughts in my mind, one was now most prominent.

I picked up my phone and, knowing my mom turns off the ringer past bedtime, texted her:

“Found you asleep. I love you lots. Let’s spend time together tomorrow. 3”

I had to chuckle at the childishness and inappropriateness of the text, almost unbecoming of me – reading it reminded me almost of a high school relationship. But she’s cornier, so no harm, right?

As I drifted off, I briefly wondered if I could possibly be instigating something between us. I wondered if my accusations of her aren’t baseless, but just fantasies of how I truly want her to be, rooted in how I saw she already was.

…Her floral lotion smells so good.