Tying My Mother To The Bed

Literotic asexstories – Tying My Mother To The Bed by Sylviafan,Sylviafan Tying My Mother to the Bed

This is a story about a controlling mother who finds emotional release by being tied down on her bed. It contains depictions of anal sex, so if that offends, or it’s not your thing, please pass on by.

Comments welcome as ever.

Sylviafan

Dad finally left mum three months ago. If he hadn’t been such a wimp he’d have gone years before. And to be honest, he never would have gone at all except that he got a new secretary at work and she fell in love with him and spent nearly a year persuading him (and giving him the courage) to leave his wife and move in with her. Some women are obviously attracted to weak men, mum clearly was.

In my mother’s case, I think she wanted somebody that would provide for her but that she could completely control; someone who would unquestioningly do everything she wanted him to do. She tried it on with me, as I was growing up, and we had some titanic battles, some of which she won and others, a few, went to me. Partly because of her controlling behaviour I never went back home to live after university; I just left my dad to his fate, which went on for another four years, until he too left her to it.

Not, I hasten to add, that my mother is a bad person; she’s kind-hearted and generous and humorous. She just has to control every aspect of her life, from the perfect home to the lives of the people she lives with. I still go round once a week to see her, normally on a Sunday afternoon, but I was getting a bit worried about her. Straight after dad left she was ok, but as the weeks went by, all the life and spirit seemed to desert her and she just sat around staring into space. More worryingly, the housework seemed to be getting neglected, which would have been unthinkable a few months ago. When it comes to housework, my mother is nothing if not obsessive-compulsive.

I think I should start this story on the first Sunday that I asked my mother if everything was ok. It was early June, warm and clear, and I’d gone round in the early afternoon and been shocked at the state of the house; it was superficially tidy, but there was a film of dust on every surface, normally anathema to my mum, and the lawns at the front and back clearly hadn’t been mowed for weeks.

Mum looked unkempt too; not actually scruffy, but not her normal perfectly-presented self. Her make-up was largely absent and her hair looked lifeless. She sat on the sofa, ignoring her cooling cup of tea, and I faced her across the sitting room in an easy chair.

I should describe my mother, I suppose. She’s called Veronica and she’s fifty-one and looks very good for her age, or at least she did until recently. She’s about five-foot six and with a very nice figure. Athletic, I suppose you’d call it. She did a lot of dancing when she was a kid, and she can still do the splits and bend over with her legs straight and put the palms of her hands flat on the floor. She’s got long, shapely legs, a flat stomach and D cup breasts. I know what size they are because I sneaked a look at her bra once. She has a broad, faintly Slavic face with a generous, full-lipped mouth, very white, even teeth, high cheekbones and dark-blue, hooded eyes with dark eyebrows. Her hair’s dark-brown with streaks of fake grey and she wears it very short.

I’ve been attracted to my mother since adolescence. It’s not just the Oedipus bit, or that she’s attractive and has a sexy figure, it’s also the aura of authority that she wears. I must have wanked myself off a thousand times as I imagined her ordering me to fuck her. And when we’d had one of our rows, I used to fantasize about throwing her over the back of the settee and holding her down as I thrust into her pussy or her arse.

‘What’s up, Mum?’ I asked, leaning forward in my chair.

‘Nothing,’ she replied with a tight smile. ‘I’m fine.’

‘But you’re not,’ I insisted. ‘The house is… well… not like it usually is,’ I finished, diplomatically. ‘And the gardens…’ I waved a hand towards the back window.

My mother’s face fell. ‘Yes,’ she admitted after a pause. ‘I suppose I have let things slip a bit since your dad left.’

‘That’s not like you at all, Mum,’ I told her.

‘Well maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought you did,’ she snapped back, surprising me. Then she smiled. ‘Sorry, Sam. I guess I’m a bit on edge.’

‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘I’m not sure a doctor could help,’ she sighed and it struck me suddenly that she might be talking about her lack of a sex life, so I let it drop, on that occasion.

The following week she looked worse. Her skin looked lifeless and she was wearing a blouse that she clearly hadn’t pressed and faded black denims; a far cry from her usual immaculate skirt and blouse, or cocktail dress and stockings. Again I asked if she’d seen a doctor and again she said no. I asked again the following Sunday, and the one after that. And, eventually, she told me what her problem was.

It was by this time early July and the weather had turned wet, although it was still very warm. I’d taken a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon around on the Sunday afternoon and I’d persuaded mum to have a glass, then another and finally to help me finish the bottle. She seemed to relax a bit with the wine and I asked her again what the matter was.

‘Oh, Sam,’ she said. ‘You keep asking. Maybe I should tell you, although it’s not very nice and you might never look at me the same way again.’

‘What can be so bad, Mum?’ I asked. ‘You’ve got a secret love child?’

‘It’s not funny, Sam. Not to me, anyway.’ She paused, mustering her thoughts, and then she began.

‘You don’t remember my parents, do you? They died when you were still quite young. But I suppose you’ve heard me talk about them and what nineteen-sixties free spirits they were.’ I nodded. ‘Well that’s all well and good, having parents that set no boundaries, but some children aren’t comfortable with that freedom and I certainly wasn’t. So I grew up wanting rules, wanting order and conformity. It became the guiding principle of my life, and I’m sorry if I was a stuck-up, controlling cow to you and your dad…

‘But as I got older, I found the role of mistress of the house becoming an almost unbearable drain on my emotional resources, the relentless responsibility of making all the decisions. I longed to be different, even for a few hours, but I couldn’t seem to let it go, even with your dad’s help.’ Mum blushed at the memory. ‘Then, one Saturday evening, we went to a party and I got talking to a lady I’d never met before. She was some sort of counsellor and I ended up getting mildly drunk and telling her all my woes. “Get your husband to tie you to the bed a couple of times a week,” she told me. “That’ll sort you out.”

‘Well, I was flabbergasted. I mean the idea of being tied to the bed and… And Sam, you must never repeat any of this!’

‘Of course not, Mum,’ I told her, my brain seething with imagery, my pulse racing.

‘Well, I eventually discussed it with your dad and to cut a long story short he tied me to the spare bed one Saturday afternoon and left me there for an hour.’

‘Did it work?’ I asked.

‘Oh, Sam, it was a revelation! I was astonished how well I felt after he untied me. I was relaxed and calm and, and serene, that’s what your dad said, serene. Just one hour of not being in control, of having no choices to make. It made a world of difference. I couldn’t believe it.’

‘Did you… did you and dad… er… when you were tied down?’ I asked, feeling my cheeks redden.

Mum blushed too. ‘Sometimes, not always. It wasn’t about sex, it was about relinquishing control. Most times I was fully dressed,’ she added.

‘And with dad gone, there’s no one to tie you down.’

‘Exactly. And even if I met someone, it would be months, maybe years before I’d trust them enough to let them do that to me. And it’s like a drug,’ she went on. ‘If I don’t get it regularly I fall apart, like I am now.’

We looked at each other for about thirty seconds, the big, unspoken elephant standing quietly in a corner of the room. ‘I could do it,’ I said at last. ‘I could tie you to the bed. If you were fully clothed, of course.’

Mum looked at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. ‘I hate asking my own son to do such a personal thing, such an intimate thing, even. But you’re the only person in my life that I can trust. Would you really do that for me, Sam?’

‘Of course.’ My head was spinning and my breathing rate had accelerated sharply in the last few minutes. It wasn’t that I thought it would lead to anything, but the very notion of strapping my controlling mother to the bed was fucking scorchingly erotic. I wasn’t looking beyond that. Not then.

‘I feel really embarrassed, now, even with the wine,’ mum said, softly. ‘But I need it so much.’

‘I can stay for a while, if you want to do it now.’

‘Oh, God, would you mind, Sam?’ She was indeed like an addict being offered a fix. She stood up and I stood and followed her upstairs to her bedroom, the one she’d shared with my dad for so many years. It was big and light, windows on two sides, fitted wardrobes along one wall and an en-suite bathroom. And a big double bed with short, wooden posts at each corner. ‘We bought it specially,’ mum said, ‘to attach the restraints.’

She bent over, giving me a good view of her rear, and pulled open a drawer in an oak chest. Rummaging around, she pulled out a tangle of nylon straps and clips and buckles. Straightening up, she turned to face me, her eyes serious. ‘I need to be sure that you’re comfortable with this, Sam. It’s a very unusual situation and I don’t want to alienate my son. You’re just about all I’ve got left.’

‘Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll be fine, and I’ll try not to enjoy it too much,’ I added mischievously.

Mum gave me a look as she untangled the straps and went around the bedposts, looping a nylon strap and buckle onto each wooden post. When she was done, she paused, as though she was about to say something. Instead, she handed me the Velcro ankle and wrist cuffs, kicked off her slippers and climbed onto the bed, where she lay with her arms and legs stretched out in supplication, looking at the ceiling.

I fitted the first cuff to her ankle. She was wearing her black jeans again but her ankles were slim and the cuff went round easily. I clipped the cuff to the nearest strap and moved onto her other ankle, then her wrists. She was wearing a short-sleeved top and her arms looked thin and vulnerable as I clipped the cuffs and pulled the straps to tighten them.

‘Make it really tight, Sam,’ mum breathed. ‘It’s better when I can’t move at all.’ So I pulled on the buckles and her arms and legs went taut and she pulled uselessly against the nylon webbing.

‘That’s perfect, Sam, thank you!’

‘How long should I leave you, Mum?’ I asked, looking down at her on the bed and feeling a sense of unreality.

‘Can you spare me an hour?’ she replied. ‘I know it’ll be boring for you…’

‘No problem,’ I assured her.

‘And can you close the curtains?’ I drew the heavy drapes and the room darkened to a twilight gloom.

‘Ok,’ I said, ‘I’ll see you in an hour.’

I slipped out of the bedroom door and closed it softly behind me. Downstairs I sat with my head whirling for a few moments before springing decisively to my feet. Over the next hour I vacuumed and dusted the downstairs rooms, polishing the big cherrywood dining table and mopping the kitchen floor. Looking at my watch, I realised with a start that mum had been on the bed for nearly an hour and a half.

I shot upstairs and into the bedroom. ‘God, I’m sorry, Mum. I completely forgot the time.’ I went around the bed loosening off the straps and unclipping them and mum sat up and massaged her arms and her leg muscles.

‘That’s fine, darling,’ she smiled at me. ‘Sometimes your dad would leave me for a couple of hours. Any more than that and I’d start to get cramp.’ Her voice sounded different, less flat. She climbed off the bed and stretched.

‘Right, I’m going to have a shower and then I’m taking you out to dinner. No arguments.’

I wasn’t about to argue. It wasn’t every day that I was taken out to dinner, especially by someone who’d spent part of the afternoon strapped to her bed.

I went downstairs and about forty-five minutes later mum came down in a dark-blue cocktail dress, black stockings and matching high-heels, a strand of pearls at her throat. She’d done her make-up carefully; her eyes looked huge and her lips were painted a dark-red, to match her fingernails. It was a transformation, and I looked at her in awe.

‘You look fantastic, Mum!’

She smiled gratefully. ‘Not too bad for an old dear,’ she replied. ‘The restorative effects of being strapped to the bed are quite remarkable, aren’t they? I feel like a new woman, literally.’

And she was a new woman that evening as we sat in a bistro and ate medium quality Italian food. Or rather she was like her old self, but softer, less prickly.

‘When should I come round again?’ I asked as we sipped our post-prandial liqueurs.

‘Well I know it’s a bit of an imposition, but I’d rather not wait until Sunday. Can you come round in the week?’

‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘It’s really no trouble. I usually do a bit of work on my tablet in the evening, but I could just as easily do it at your house, especially if there was a dinner afterwards,’ I added with a grin.

And that was how it came about that I went round to my mother’s house two or sometimes three times a week and strapped her to the bed while I sat at the kitchen table writing emails and examining spreadsheets. I normally left her for ninety minutes, but occasionally she would ask to be left for the full two hours. And afterwards, when I released her, she would appear downstairs glowing with contentment and she would cook us dinner and we would chat and laugh late into the evening.

Which was all very well, but in the same way as it had an effect on my mother, it had an effect on me. At first I was mildly aroused. My mother never wore sexy clothes during our sessions, but the sight of her spreadeagled on the bed inevitably gave me an erection. She was, as I have said, an attractive lady, in the prime of her maturity, and my childhood fantasies re-emerged with added vigour. I now masturbated two or three times a day, exclusively to visions of my mother. Sometimes I masturbated while she was in bondage upstairs.

In the act of tying her down, and when she was fully secured, I felt an almost irresistible urge to touch her, in inappropriate places: her breasts and her crotch. I wanted to take a handful of her hair and pull her head back and force my mouth onto hers, tasting her lipstick and pushing my tongue into her mouth. And afterwards, when she had showered and dressed, I wanted to touch her gently and stroke the soft skin of her neck, as though we had just made love.

It was a cumulative effect. I coped with it for the first five or six weeks, but eventually I began to fear that I wouldn’t be able to control myself. That I would fondle and grope her as she writhed in protest and told me to stop. Maybe I would masturbate in front of her, splashing her with my spunk as I came. Splashing her face as she turned from me in disgust. That, I decided, could not be allowed to happen. I needed to talk this through with her, to tell her how I was feeling and maybe suggest that we had to stop, although God knows, I didn’t want to.

I chose a warm, August Sunday. We had lunch in the garden with a bottle of chilled pinot grigio. Mum was happy and relaxed, anticipating what would happen later in the afternoon. I was tense and edgy and eventually she looked at me and asked what the matter was. I prevaricated, said it was nothing, but my mother is neither stupid nor insensitive.

‘It’s about us, isn’t it?’ she said, looking at me with her hooded eyes. ‘What we do.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ I whispered.

‘You’re not comfortable with it anymore?’ she asked, her face a study in disappointment.

I braced myself. ‘The problem is that I’m too comfortable with it, Mum. It’s beginning to dominate my thinking. And I’m starting to have the most inappropriate thoughts and feelings.’

‘About me?’ my mother asked, quietly.

‘Yes,’ I told her, ‘about you.’ She looked down at her hands. Her nails were painted a bright red. She always seemed to have painted nails now, just as she wore more make-up.

‘I was afraid that this might happen,’ she began, eventually. ‘I suppose I just hoped it wouldn’t, but that was silly. I put you into an essentially sexual scenario with me and asked you to repeat it two or three times a week. What could I expect?

‘I don’t want it to stop, Sam,’ she said with a tone of pathos. ‘Is there some way we can work around it?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘The feelings I get are so strong.’

My mother paused and swallowed. ‘Would it help if you touched me when I was tied down?’ she asked in little more than a whisper, ‘relieve some of the tension? I couldn’t stop you anyway, if you wanted to,’ she added.

I looked sharply at my mother and she returned my gaze and something fizzled in the air between us like the buzzing of high-tension electrical cables. I felt my throat constrict and I felt suddenly short of breath.

‘Maybe we could try,’ I said, huskily.

‘Let’s do that,’ my mother said quietly, draining her wineglass and standing up.

Afterwards, when I was thinking straight, I realised that inviting me to touch her when she was secured to the bed wasn’t the way to control my sexual urges, quite the opposite. Later still I came to understand that what my mother wanted was to excite me to the point that I would make some move. She was still controlling me, but in a more subtle way.

But that was later. Right now I followed her up the stairs to her bedroom in a haze of arousal, my cock like steel in my trousers.

The restraints were already on the bed posts so mum just kicked off her pumps and climbed on, lying on her back, her arms and legs stretched out, smiling at me calmly. ‘Nice and tight, now, Sam,’ she whispered.

She was wearing tan slacks and a matching short-sleeved satin blouse. Her make-up was carefully applied, her red lipstick matching her nails, and she looked scrummy. And that was part of the problem; after the first couple of times, it wasn’t a dowdy, middle-aged woman I was strapping down to give her a fix, but a shapely, attractive, well-dressed lady, with the added allure of being my mother.

I swallowed nervously and started to secure the cuffs to her ankles and wrists while she watched me with a gentle smile on her face. Then I clipped the cuffs to the straps and pulled them very tight.

‘Ooh that’s lovely,’ she cooed, flexing her arm and leg muscles against the restraints.

‘Can I touch you, now?’ I asked, thickly.

‘That’s up to you, Sam,’ she said, softly. ‘I can’t stop you.’

I sat tentatively on the edge of the bed, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and intense arousal. ‘It’s awkward,’ I stuttered.

‘Don’t be shy,’ she whispered. I reached out and stroked her bare arm with one fingertip, feeling the soft, downy hair on her forearm. She smiled and closed her eyes. ‘Mmm.’ I stroked her arm for another minute, my guts churning. Ok, it was just my mother’s arm, but sons didn’t touch their mothers like that, did they?

I moved my hand up, running my fingertips over her soft cheeks and her neck. She cooed again and turned her head to and fro like a cat being stroked. ‘That’s nice,’ she said quietly. I ran my fingers through her hair, feeling its softness, my guts constricting with fear and excitement, my cock a rigid pole.

I wanted to touch her breasts but part of me was saying no, don’t! I stroked her neck again and her shoulders. I ran my fingers down her stomach and over her hips, tracing their feminine curve. I stroked her thighs and her lower legs, feeling the tautness of her calf muscles, then back up to her hips, straying slightly towards her crotch, watching my mother’s face as my hand went past the waistband of her slacks and up towards her breasts.

Mum lay motionless, her eyes closed, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling fast, obviously affected by my touching, obviously aroused. I took a deep breath and placed my hand on her right breast, feeling the flattened but firm mound of flesh under her blouse and brassiere. She gave a little gasp and her eyes flicked open then closed again. I cupped her tit, squeezing gently before moving to her left breast, massaging it while my head whirled and my cock strained in my pants.

I’d come today to tell my mother that I felt I was losing control around her and that we should stop. But to overcome my qualms, she had offered me more, appealed to my baser instincts and I could no more stop now than I could fly. My hand moved from her breast and back over her stomach, going further down, feeling the ridge of her pubic bone and the softness of her mons pubis, my heart racing, my breathing harsh. I felt her whole body tense as my fingers slid over the soft material of her slacks and I cupped her mound and squeezed gently.

Mum moaned softly as I stroked and squeezed her pussy through the layers of her clothes. I pressed my fingertips into the material, fancying I could feel her labia, fancying I could feel her wetness seeping through. I pressed harder and squeezed her mound tighter and she gasped and threw her head back.

‘Yes, Sam!’ she hissed. ‘Rub me hard!’

I pressed my palm hard against her and massaged her pussy with small, circular motions. Mum strained against her straps, her face red, her breathing harsh.

‘Higher, Sam, and use your fingertips!’

I switched to using two fingers, the same circular motion, feeling the softness of her mound, watching her face as I masturbated her. I seemed to have hit the right spot because she started gasping and trying to arch her back and then she started to moan and the moan got louder and more high-pitched. I pressed harder and mum gave a little shriek and struggled against her bonds. Then she went limp and I slowed and stopped my fingers.

Mum opened her eyes and gave me a slow, sleepy smile. ‘You’ve just given your mother an orgasm, Sam.’

I blushed furiously. ‘Should I release you now?’ I asked her.

‘Oh no. Leave me for a couple of hours. You’re not in a hurry to get away are you?’

I assured her I wasn’t before getting up off the bed and closing the curtains. Then I went downstairs and threw myself onto the sofa in the lounge and masturbated to a quick, messy orgasm. Then I masturbated again, slowly and gently, savouring the feeling, running the events upstairs through my head like a video tape.

I had masturbated my mother and she had had a climax, albeit through the twin barriers of her slacks and panties. Furthermore, she had encouraged me, more or less. She’d certainly suggested that I touched her while she was secured. I was so fucking turned on, all moral (and legal) considerations put to one side. What would she have done if I’d put my hand down her trousers? I asked myself. What would she have said if I had started to unbutton her blouse?

When the two hours were up I went upstairs to my mother’s bedroom. She was fast asleep in her restraints. It wasn’t the first time she’d slept like this. ‘It’s so relaxing,’ she’d told me.

I released her arms and legs and removed her cuffs and she woke up and stretched like a cat. ‘Oh, Sam, I had the most lovely sleep. I feel so relaxed now.’

The rest of the day was a bit tense. Mum cooked dinner and we ate in the conservatory and tried to make conversation, but it was a bit awkward. At least, it was awkward for me; mum seemed relaxed and full of smiles. So after I’d helped clear up and load the dishwasher I said my goodbyes and headed home. ‘Will I see you on Wednesday?’ she called as I walked down the drive to the road.

I did indeed go round to my mother’s the following Wednesday, having spent every spare minute on Monday and Tuesday reliving the events of the weekend. It was now obvious to me that my uptight and domineering mother had a strongly submissive side. It was also becoming obvious that, should I take things further, my attentions might not be wholly unwelcomed. The possibilities were intriguing to say the least, so why was I so uncertain? After all, I’d been sexually attracted to my mother pretty much since puberty, so why hold back?

I suppose at the end of the day it was just fear of the unknown. A sexual relationship with my mother was outside any sort of experience I had and, although the idea was hugely and fundamentally arousing, would there be consequences? How would it feel emotionally? What would happen if we got caught? That didn’t bear thinking about, so I dismissed it.

I arrived at my mother’s house early on Wednesday evening in rather a mix of emotions, of which fear and excitement predominated. I let myself in and called out and mum came through into the entrance hall and my stomach flipped as I saw that she was wearing a grey woollen cocktail dress, black stockings and high-heels; I knew they were stockings because mum hated pantyhose. Every other time I’d strapped her down she’d worn slacks, now she was dressed in such a manner as to make my access to her private parts much easier when she was secured to her bed, her legs stretched wide apart. I think in that instant I knew I wanted her more than I was worried about the consequences, knew that I would go through with it.

It helped that she looked good in the figure-hugging dress, it suited her curves and her bust, and the stockings certainly suited her legs. She’d put quite a lot of make-up on too, including plenty of eye-liner and shadow and a rather startling glossy red lipstick.

I must have been gawping at her because she smiled and said, ‘Do I look ok?’

‘Ravishing,’ I assured her with a gulp.

‘I’ve opened a bottle of white wine,’ she told me. ‘I thought we could have a glass in the conservatory, to relax us.’

So we sat in the rattan chairs in the sunroom and sipped the chilled wine and tried to make conversation about what we’d been doing that day, but who were we kidding. You could have cut the air with a knife. My guts were churning and the longer I sat and looked at my mum, one stockinged leg crossed elegantly over the other, the more excited I got. Eventually something snapped.

Draining my glass I stood up. ‘Right, Mum, I’m taking you upstairs,’ I told her briskly.

I think mum flushed, although it was hard to tell under all her make-up. ‘Can’t I finish my wine?’

‘No,’ I said firmly, taking her upper arm and pulling her upright. Her eyes were wide as she looked at me, saying nothing. I marched her through the house to the stairs and up to her bedroom where I released her.

‘Get on the bed,’ I ordered. She bent and put her hands on the duvet, preparing to crawl onto the bed. ‘No, wait,’ I told her, feeling suddenly dizzy. I was about to cross a line once and for all. ‘Take your knickers off,’ I commanded.

She froze for a few seconds then straightened up and turned to face me, her face serious, forbidding even. ‘You want your mother to take her panties off?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes,’ I said, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice.

Mum looked at me for another few seconds before reaching down with her red-tipped fingers and lifting the hem of her dress, revealing the darker shade of her stocking tops, her black suspender straps and her silky black panties. She gripped the waistband of her knickers and pulled them down with a faint rustling sound over her stockings, lifting each foot in turn then standing, her dress falling back down to her knees as she straightened up. without saying a word, she handed me her panties and crawled slowly onto the bed, lying stretched out on her back in her customary position, the grey of her dress and the black of her hose stark against the white cotton of the bed set.

I looked down at the panties in my hand and, on an impulse, stuffed them in my pocket. Then I got down to the serious business of securing my mother to her bed. I went slowly, savouring the moment, letting the tension build up as I attached her cuffs and clipped them to the straps, pulling them tight until she could barely move. When I’d finished I closed the curtains and came and sat on the bed next to my mother, who looked up at me in the gloom of the bedroom.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked me softly.

‘I’m going to touch you,’ I replied, running a finger down her cheek and over her shoulder, ‘everywhere.’ Mum shivered and closed her eyes.

Over the next half-hour or so I stroked and caressed my mother as she lay bound beneath me. I ran my fingers over her face, touching her lips and chin and nose. I stroked her neck and slid my fingers down to her cleavage before cupping her breasts and squeezing gently. I slid my hands over her flat stomach and over her hips, skirting her crotch and feeling the fine mesh of her stockings under my fingertips. I traced her thighs and her stocking-clad calves with their slim ankles. And my mother gasped and moaned, a dab of saliva at her lower lip, her eyes closed as the tension built up and every time my hand passed her crotch it came a little closer, teasing and exciting her in a way that I suspected she had never before experienced.

Eventually I couldn’t wait any longer. I slid my hand very slowly up her inner thigh, feeling the warmth and softness of my mother’s skin, feeling her suspenders. I lifted the woollen dress clear and looked down for the first time on my mother’s naked pussy, with its thick tuft of dark, curly hair framing her light-brown labia.

I was overwhelmed with emotion, with a sense of unreality. Surely mum would tell me to stop. But instead she opened her eyes and looked at me and said quietly, ‘You can touch me there if you want, Sam. I’d like you to.’

I cupped her mound and squeezed gently, feeling the silky softness of her pubic hair and the wetness around her labia. My mother was soaking wet, oozing juices, the scent strong in the still air of the bedroom. I slipped my middle finger between her lips and slid it into the depths of her vagina, feeling her heat and lubrication, feeling her grip me with her muscles. It seemed forbidden and intensely exciting all at the same time. I’d certainly never felt this level of arousal when fingering my girlfriends. For Christ’s sake this was my mother! She’d birthed me through the tunnel that I was now exploring with a second finger, curling them and stroking her vaginal walls, seeking her G spot, watching her writhe against her restraints, gasping with raw desire.

On an impulse I removed my fingers and held them to my nose, then sliding one into my mouth, tasting the sweet, musky juice. I leaned over and offered her the other, pushing it between her glossy lips, feeling the rasp of her tongue and the suction of her mouth as she tasted herself and cleaned my finger. Then my fingers were back in her, right to the third knuckle and she was moaning and squirming as I used a thumb on her clitoris, pressing the little bud and making her cry out.

‘Yes, Sam, yes! Make me come!’

I slid my fingers in and out of her soaking hole and rubbed her pearl, the centre of her pleasure. She squealed and pulled at her straps and I leaned over her and pressed my mouth to hers pushing my tongue between her lips, tasting her saliva, feeling her mouth open against mine in a silent scream as her orgasm swept through her like a summer storm.

Afterwards she went limp as she had done the first time and I sat up, the taste of her lipstick on my lips. Part of me wanted to strip off and penetrate her but a saner part said don’t, not now, not just after she’s come. And besides, I had a sudden urge to be alone, to try and reconcile the emotional turmoil that I was going through.

‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ I told her.

Downstairs I pressed the damp gusset of my mother’s panties to my nose while I masturbated to a cataclysmic orgasm. Smelling and tasting my mother’s juices, remembering the feel of her sopping cunt, her pubic hair.

Later, after I’d released her, my mother had a long bath and it wasn’t until nearly ten o’clock that she came downstairs and into the lounge in a silk dressing gown where I was waiting to go home.

I stood up as she entered the room and she came to me and put her hands on my shoulders and kissed my lightly on the lips. She’d removed her make-up and she looked older and more vulnerable.

‘I’m glad you waited until I came down, Sam,’ she began. ‘I wanted to thank you for making me feel alive and excited and… and like a woman again.’ She had a sort of dreamy expression on her face as though she was a bit disconnected from reality. I knew how she felt!

‘I should go,’ I said, thickly, feeling uncomfortable in her presence after what I’d done to her on the bed.

‘Ok, darling,’ she smiled sweetly, walking with me to the front door. ‘Will I see you at the weekend?’ We were standing in the unlit hall, facing each other.

‘I’ll be round on Saturday afternoon,’ I told her. We were about a foot apart and I was acutely aware of my mother’s nakedness under her dressing gown. Acutely aware too of how it had felt to touch her and to kiss her, the taste of her mouth and the scent of her arousal in the bedroom. I was hard again and finding it difficult to think straight.

‘Have you got a kiss for your mum before you go?’ she asked quietly.

I put my arms around her a bit clumsily and drew her to me, pecking her lips briefly. Mum responded by pressing her mouth to mine and opening her mouth, inviting me in. I slid my tongue into her liquid interior and she gave a long, drawn-out ‘Mmm’ and put her arms around my neck.

We kissed for about a minute, lips working, tongues weaving. I could feel her braless breasts pressed against my chest, feel the heat of her body through the thin silk. I felt that roaring in my ears again and I had to break the kiss before I was overwhelmed. I opened the front door and stepped through onto the porch, turning to see my mother standing in the doorway.

‘Goodbye, Mum,’ I said, a bit lamely.

‘Goodbye, Sam,’ she replied, stepping out into the porch and facing me again. ‘I shall look forward to Saturday.’ Leaning forwards she whispered, ‘And if you’re a little bit stricter with me on Saturday, and maybe a little bit rougher, too, I think you could have everything you wanted from me.’ Then she was going back inside and closing the door and I was standing mute in the evening darkness.

I was a wreck for the next couple of days. I went to work but I was functioning only on autopilot. All my waking thoughts were of my mother and what I knew would happen on Saturday afternoon in her bedroom. And my God did I want it! Any considerations of morality or of the laws on incest had been firmly swept under the carpet. And I realised now that my mother had played her cards with subtlety and rare skill, taking me on a journey, one step at a time, normalising the situation before moving on to the next stage of her seduction. Well I did say she was a controlling bitch! But maybe she would get a surprise or two on Saturday.

I arrived at her house at two o’clock in the afternoon with a bottle of wine, some flowers and a diamond-cutter of an erection. The August air felt unnaturally thick as I let myself in and called out to her.

‘In the kitchen, Sam,’ she called back.

I went through and handed her the flowers and she cooed and found a vase. She was wearing another cocktail dress, this one in a dark-green satin. She was also wearing black, seamed stockings and lots of make-up. The overall effect, with the make-up and the seamed stockings, was slightly wanton, slutty even. It was, I realised in a gut-churning instant, exactly the impression she wished to create – that she was available to be taken and would submit to anything.

When she’d finished arranging her flowers I grabbed her unceremoniously and forced her up against the wall by the kitchen door. She gasped as I pressed my mouth to hers, pushing my tongue deep into her mouth, one hand finding the hem of her dress and slipping underneath, seeking her panties.

My mother struggled, closing her legs against my exploring hand, but her tongue was in my mouth and her arms were around me, her long, dark-green nails pressed into my back and I realised it was all part of the game, a game I was eager to play.

‘Open your legs!’ I ordered her, ‘or I’ll spank your arse.’

‘No, Sam, you mustn’t,’ she said in a throaty voice. ‘I’m your mother.’

I pulled her away from the wall and pushed her over the kitchen table, holding her down with one hand on the small of her back while I raised her dress with the other and pulled it over to expose her panty-clad buttocks. Roughly pulling down her flimsy black knickers I raised my arm and slapped her bare buttock. Mum squealed and struggled so I slapped her other arse cheek, leaving a red handprint.

‘Please don’t hurt me, Sam,’ she whimpered, her arms behind her now, trying to grab my hands. I delivered another couple of brisk slaps before pulling her knickers up and pulling her off the table.

‘Get upstairs to the bedroom,’ I commanded, giving her backside a final smack. She ran upstairs and I followed her.

‘Now strip,’ I ordered.

My mother made a show of reluctance before unzipping her dress and letting it fall to the floor, rustling over the nylon of her stockings. She looked at me in mute appeal before reaching behind and unclipping her brassiere, letting that slide down her arms to the floor. It was the first time for about twenty-five years that I’d seen her breasts uncovered. They were round and heavy-looking but they didn’t sag and her big, pink nipples were delightfully upturned. ‘Nice,’ I commented, ‘but leave your stockings on,’ I added as she reached to unfasten her suspender belt.

‘What do you want me to do now?’ she asked in a small voice after she’d slipped her panties off.

‘Sit on the bed. Stroke your nipples and make them nice and hard.’ She did as she was told, sitting on the edge of the bed and cupping her breasts, looking down at them as she rubbed her nipples with her thumbs, then looking up at me as I started to undress.

Thirty seconds later I was naked, naked in front of my mother, my cock a throbbing pole pointing at the ceiling, my foreskin retracted, my glans purple and angry and slick with seminal fluid. Time seemed to slow down and my vision seemed preternaturally clear as I stepped to the bed.

‘Suck my cock, Mum,’ I told her, ‘take me in your mouth and suck me.’

She bent over, taking my thick, veined shaft in one elegant hand, her tapered fingers with their long, green nails gripping me gently but firmly. Her head dipped lower and I felt her lips slide over my plum, warm and soft and utterly exquisite. I placed a hand gently on the back of my mother’s head as she started to fellate me with slow, slurping strokes. I felt her tongue exploring me, I felt her fingers stroke the base of my shaft and I felt the suction of her mouth and the lubrication of her saliva as she sucked and licked my cock.

I could have come in her mouth and still been able to fuck her fifteen minutes later – I was that aroused. But something held me back and, as I felt the first tickle of an impending orgasm, I grasped a handful of her hair and raised her head from me.

‘Now get on the bed, Mummy,’ I told her, relishing the use of her title. She scrambled on and lay back and I fitted her wrist cuffs and attached them to the restraint straps and pulled them tight as she watched me with her hooded eyes.

‘Aren’t you going to do my legs?’ she asked quietly.

‘Later, Mummy, later,’ I replied, climbing onto the bed and kneeling between her legs. I grasped her slender ankles and lifted her stocking-clad legs over her chest, bending her double and exposing her cunt to my excited gaze. And what a peach of a sight it was too: my mother was hairy, but not too hairy, soft brown curls framing big, thick, golden-brown labia. And further down, her anus was a delicious pink pucker, hinting at even more forbidden pleasures.

But right now I wanted to smell her and taste her, to bury my head in her sopping pussy. I leaned down and slowly licked her from her perineum to her clitoris and she cried out and strained against her bonds. I pressed my mouth to her labia and slid my tongue into her silken depths, lapping up her most intimate secretions, tasting the musk and the honey sweetness of her.

I licked my mother’s cunt for long minutes, her juices coating my face, my hands on her thighs, slipping my fingers under her suspender straps as I feasted on her. She was moaning softly pretty well all the time except when my tongue flicked over her clitoris, when she would gasp and beg me not to stop.

I knew she wanted the release of an orgasm but I was enjoying myself, anticipating my eventual penetration, savouring the control I had over her. So I kept her at a lower pitch as I licked and lapped and slurped her silky discharge, occasionally dipping lower and touching her rosebud with my tongue.

Eventually, when I sensed she was getting close anyway, I concentrated on the centre of her pleasure, taking the little bud into my mouth and licking the sensitive tip. Towards the end I slid two fingers into her cunt hole and fucked her gently as I licked her clit.

‘Oh, God, I’m coming,’ she groaned and I removed my fingers from her vagina and pushed one into her anus, as far as it would go. My mother screamed and paddled her legs and pulled ferociously against her restraints as the waves of a massive orgasm crashed through her nervous system.

Before the shock waves had died away I penetrated her, with one long, powerful thrust, giving her all my seven inches. Her eyes opened wide as I thrust into her, my hands on her ankles, holding them down either side of her head and demonstrating her superb suppleness. For a position to fuck your dominating mother in for the first time it takes some beating. She was completely in my power and I had a great view, if I looked down, of my cock pistoning in and out of her willing cunt. Add to the mix her arm restraints and her seamed stockings and suspender belt and you have a recipe for sex of the most extraordinarily erotic and taboo nature.

All that was left to do was to kiss my mother as I fucked her, crashing my pelvis into hers, relishing the slurpy, liquid noises from her cunt, letting her taste her own juices as I mashed my lips against hers and pushed my tongue into her mouth.

‘I’m going to fuck you until I come inside you,’ I told her, my face inches from hers. I’d never used that word in front of my mother before and she certainly hadn’t.

She closed her eyes and started making loud gasping noises and I guessed she was having a second orgasm. That knowledge tipped me over the edge and I thrush harder into her as the tingling in my balls swelled into a vast climax that blanked out all my senses and throbbed through me until I thought I would pass out while spurting my hot seed into my mother.

Mum started crying as I pulled my cock out of her and spunk dribbled out onto the duvet. Horrified I undid her wrist cuffs and took her into my arms where she sobbed for about five minutes while I held her and stroked her and told her that I loved her. Eventually she stopped and wiped her eyes, which were a mess of smeared mascara and eye shadow.

‘I’m sorry, Sam, that’s probably the last thing you want after what we’ve just done.’

‘Was it alright?’ I asked anxiously. ‘You did enjoy it didn’t you?’

‘Oh Sam, of course I enjoyed it. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. It’s what I wanted sex to be like but it never was. You made me come twice, too,’ she added. ‘I’ve never come in that position before. How do you feel?’ she asked, looking up at me.

‘Utterly contented and at peace,’ I replied after thinking for a few seconds. ‘Sorry if that sounds a bit trite, but it’s how I’m feeling right now. I’m certainly not feeling any guilt about committing incest with you.’

‘No,’ said my mother, slowly, ‘neither am I. I think it’s what I’ve been needing for a long time. A good fucking, I mean. And don’t look so shocked, Sam. I do know those words. I loved your dad,’ she went on, ‘and if he’d been rough with me and done what you did this afternoon I think I’d have been a nicer wife and we’d probably still be married.’

We got up soon after that revelation and showered together in the en-suite bathroom attached to mum’s bedroom. It was great soaping my mum’s naked body, exploring every nook and cranny and kissing her as the hot water cascaded over our heads.

Afterwards mum prepared dinner and I mowed the lawns and tidied the flower beds. We ate in the dining room with a bottle of Chianti and then moved to the lounge and sat together on the sofa, mum’s head on my shoulder, and watched television until the ten o’clock news came on.

‘I should be going,’ I said, taking my arm from around mum’s shoulder.

‘Why?’ she asked.

Well that was a good question. Why indeed. We hadn’t discussed me staying overnight but why shouldn’t I? ‘Are you ok with me staying over?’ I asked.

‘Of course, darling. I’d love you to.’ My mother had been transformed since our activities earlier on in the afternoon. She had a sort of permanent dreamy smile on her face and she was kind and attentive and softly spoken. She’d also started calling me ‘darling’ which was rather nice.

So at just after eleven, my mother and I went up to her bedroom and brushed our teeth and undressed and got into her bed together just like any normal married couple on a Saturday night. And we made love.

It was a world away from the bondage and domination and raw sexual acts of the afternoon. We kissed for long moments and I stroked mum’s breasts and softly squeezed her nipples. I suckled them, too, as I had done nearly a quarter of a century before. Taking them in my teeth and biting down very gently and making mum squirm with pleasure and run her green nails down my back, which made me shiver with arousal.

I stroked her stomach and she parted her thighs to allow me access to her. I cupped her vulva and it was her turn to shiver. ‘Oh darling,’ she moaned into my mouth as I slid one finger then two into her hot, liquid depths.

Eventually I took her in the missionary position and it was glorious. I went slowly, sliding in and out of her with long strokes, kissing her mouth and cheeks and neck, whispering to her how good it made me feel and how much I loved her. My mother kissed me back with increasing passion, wrapping her long, elegant legs around my back and urging me into her, deeper and harder. I felt her nails dig into the flesh of my shoulders and I thrust hard and she cried out as her orgasm started and mine followed soon after and for the second time on that extraordinary day I squirted my spunk deep inside my mother.

Mum cried a bit again, afterwards, but nothing like the catharsis of earlier. I held her tight and smelled the scent of her skin and her arousal. ‘I hope it’s like this every time,’ she said, wiping her eyes with a tissue from the box on her bedside table. ‘And I need to go to the doctor’s on Monday and go back on the pill.’

‘Really!’ I said, surprised.

‘I think technically you could still make me pregnant. You do hear of women conceiving at my age,’ said mum. ‘It’s unlikely but I don’t want to take the risk.’

This intimate talk of conception and the implication that my mother and I were now in an established sexual relationship, however illegal, aroused me again and I reached for her, my cock swelling. But mum laughed quietly and turned over. ‘It’s very flattering that you want me again but I’m exhausted, Sam. I’ll make it up to you in the morning,’ she added.

My mother was as good as her word. She brought me a mug of tea at seven thirty on Sunday morning and I drank it while she had a quick shower; my mother’s fastidiousness for personal hygiene hadn’t yet been diminished by our incestuous activities, although it would be in the future. So after she came out of the shower I went in and when I got back into the bedroom, towelling myself down, mum was lying on the bed with her legs spread wide and stroking herself with one green-tipped finger.

I watched mesmerised as she inserted a finger into herself and brought it to her mouth, licking and sucking her digit clean. Then I was on her, diving onto the bed, holding down her arms while I sucked and bit her nipples, kissing her savagely, entering her roughly with a single thrust that made her gasp.

I slowed down a bit after that and we fucked for long minutes, me looking down on my mother’s face in the morning light, my brain still struggling to accept what I was seeing and feeling. ‘Would you like me to go on top?’ she asked.

I rolled off her and she got up and straddled me and reached for my prick, guiding the big plum head to her labia and sitting down on my loins as my rigid length slid inside her, her eyes closed, her head back. It was one of the most erotic things I’d ever seen. She put her hands on my thighs, leaning back, and started to flex her hips, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, gently fucking her son. Then she leaned forward, her hands on my chest, and started riding me faster, her clitoris mashed down onto my pubic bone. She rode me hard, thrashing back and forth, faster and faster until she screamed and dug her nails painfully into me as her climax broke over her like a wave crashing on the beach. Then she collapsed down into my arms and I held her tight.

‘Have me from behind, now, Sam,’ she whispered, climbing off me. ‘Have me like a dog has his bitch.’

After the events of the weekend, I barely registered this latest glimpse of my mother’s sexuality. Instead I did as she had asked and got behind her and rammed my cock into her pussy and gave it to her deep and hard while she knelt before me, her head cradled in her arms. I was deeper in my mother than I’d been before and she felt delicious! Hot and silky smooth and surprisingly tight. I fucked her with powerful thrusts, savouring the sight of her rounded buttocks, rippling as I slammed into her, licking my thumb and pressing the tip to her anus, pushing it in as I started to come.

Of all the orgasms I had that weekend, that was the most powerful, the most fundamental. It seemed to go on for aeons and afterwards I sank to the mattress limp and spent while my mother stroked me and kissed me and told me how much she loved me.

Later that day, in the early afternoon, I tied my mother to the bed and fucked her again, before leaving her in harness for an hour or so, the spunk dribbling out of her cunt, while I watched a football game on the television. It was one of the last times I left her tied down; she didn’t need it anymore, she explained. What she was getting from me was more than adequate to satisfy her and restore what she called her “inner serenity”.

Neither of us mentioned my going home on Sunday night; it seemed to be tacitly assumed that I would stay and stay I did. We made love again when we went to bed and it was like Saturday night: no bondage, no domination, just mutually glorious lovemaking, tender and giving, which gave us both an orgasm and left us in a state of grace.

Afterwards, in the darkness of the bedroom, we talked. My mother surprised me by suggesting that I move back in with her, maybe renting my flat out. It seemed a bit soon for a commitment like that but when I really thought about it I couldn’t fault the idea. I had no current girlfriend and I was head over heels in love with my mother, both as a parent and as the most exciting lover I had ever known. I said I would think about it but my mind was already made up.

It was another couple of weeks before I took my mother’s anal cherry. By this time I had moved back into my childhood home with my mother and the arrangement was looking very promising, although I hadn’t yet rented my flat out; to be honest everything seemed just too good to be true and I wanted a bolthole in case it all went pear shaped.

We were careful, of course, never touching in public and making sure the curtains were closed before even kissing. We made love every morning and every evening and I became addicted to sex with my mother and she, for her part, seemed equally keen. Furthermore our emotional relationship was vastly better than it had ever been. Mum treated me as an equal and if any of her old character traits looked like rearing their ugly head I just pulled her down over my knee, raised her skirt and paddled her arse until she promised to be good. After that, she was putty in my hands.

It’s hard for me to describe just how fulfilling and just how damned erotic the whole thing was. My mother was, to me, the ideal of a mature, elegant and desirable lady. She dressed well and she used make-up carefully. She wore stockings and suspenders and she painted her nails. Add to that the spice of incest and the lack of inhibition that she invariably displayed in bed and you may get some idea of the little heaven that I was in. But of course, like Oliver Twist, I always wanted more, and more in this case translated as anal intercourse with my mother, which I saw as the absolute pinnacle of sexual attainment.

I’d pushed a finger up her arse a number of times while I was eating her pussy, and I also pressed a thumb into her pucker when I took her from behind. Mum never told me not to, indeed, she seemed to have stronger orgasms with my middle finger or thumb in her rectum. So one Sunday morning, while we were out hiking in the hills, I brought the subject round tactfully to anal intercourse.

Mum just laughed. ‘I wondered when you were going to bring that up,’ she said. ‘I take it that you want to do it with me.’

‘Have you done it before?’ I asked, my heart racing.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I always thought it was a bit gross. But then I always thought incest was a bit gross until I tried it.’

‘So that’s a “yes”?’ I asked.

‘As I’ve said before, Sam, if I’m tied to the bed I can’t control what you do to me, can I?’

Later that day, as the shadows in the garden were lengthening, I took my mother’s arm and pulled her roughly upstairs to our bedroom, where I told her to strip and lie face down on the bed. She knew what was coming and there was a lot of pretend reluctance, although I did detect a trace of genuine fear. I was resolved to go slowly and gently; if I couldn’t do it without hurting my mother, I wouldn’t do it at all.

She crawled onto the bed and lay face down, her arms and legs stretched obediently out. It was the work of a couple of minutes to secure her to the bed and pull the straps so tight that she couldn’t move. For a few seconds I stood admiring the spectacle of my naked mother: her skin so smooth and flawless, her long, well-muscled legs, her curving hips and fleshy buttocks. Her face was turned to one side, eyes closed, red lipstick in stark contrast to the white bed linen.

I took the tube of lubricant out of my trouser pocket and threw it on the bed, where my mother could see it. Then I undressed and got onto the bed with her, kneeling between her legs. I squeezed a gob of the sticky jelly onto my fingers and mum flinched as my fingertips found her rosebud and started to massage the gel into her sphincter. She stayed quiet, her eyes still closed, her lips parted as I applied more jelly and worked first one finger then two into her rectum, coating the walls and feeling her grip me. I finished off my preparations by smearing the residual lubricant onto the head of my cock and smearing it down the shaft.

‘I’ll be very gentle, Mum,’ I told her. ‘Just tell me to stop if I’m hurting you.’

I grasped my slippery shaft in my right hand and guided it between the cleft of her buttocks, pressing it against her sphincter. Mum groaned softly as I pressed my cockhead into her, her tight anus resisting me, my shaft flexing.

‘Are you ok, Mum?’ I asked.

‘I’m fine, Sam, you’re not hurting me.’

Thus encouraged I pressed harder, expecting mum to cry out, as Emma had done the first time I put my cock in her arse, but she was silent. I pressed harder and mum’s anus opened up and the big head of my cock slid in and mum groaned again and I froze, terrified that I’d hurt her.

‘It’s ok, Sam,’ she whispered. ‘You can go all the way in now but go slowly.’ So I sank all seven inches of my erection into my mother’s anus as she lay under me, bound to the bed. It was the most extraordinarily erotic act that I had ever experienced or even dreamed about and I was close to coming as my shaft disappeared into her obscenely stretched hole, inch by glorious inch.

I stopped when she’d got the lot and, leaning down, I kissed her cheek. ‘Does that feel alright?’ I asked.

Mum smiled. ‘It feels deliciously naughty. Much nicer than I thought it would.’ My heart sang as I withdrew a few inches and sank back in, fucking my mum’s arse with slow, increasingly long strokes. My mother gave a soft groan each time I slid back in and pressed her loins to the mattress.

‘If you release one of my arms,’ she said suddenly, ‘I could touch myself while you sodomised me. I think that would be rather nice.’

Her use of the word “sodomised” was, she admitted later, designed to arouse me even further. I gasped and leaned down, ripping the Velcro cuff off her right wrist. Mum wriggled her arm underneath her body and I felt her fingers slide into her vagina. ‘Oh my goodness, Sam, I’m so wet and I can feel you inside me with my fingers.’

I was close to an orgasm now and so, surprisingly, was my mother. Almost as soon as her fingertip had found her clitoris she started grunting and bucking and then she cried out and I felt her anus spasm as a massive climax crashed down over her. Before it had subsided I was coming. An unstoppable wall of pleasure that surged through me as my cock pumped my semen into my mum’s anus.

Then it was over and I was withdrawing carefully out of mum, undoing her restraints, rolling her into my arms and holding her to me, feeling her heart thumping. ‘Well, that was a surprise,’ she said after we’d lain silent for some minutes. ‘I didn’t think I was going to enjoy it but the sensation of you inside my naughtiest hole, filling me while I touched myself was… just fabulous.’

Epilogue – two years on.

After the events described above, I moved all my stuff out of my flat and rented it out and mum went back on the pill. It’s two years down the line now and we’re like a pair of besotted newlyweds. In public we are mother and son, always behaving correctly but inside the house we can’t keep our hands off each other. The sex just gets better and better. Now when I strap mum to the bed I use a butt plug and a ball gag and she loves it, grunting into the gag, her eyes rolling as I thrust into her helpless body.

After two years the excitement of the idea and the reality of sex with my mother has not diminished one iota. On the contrary, I fuck her more often and more vigorously than I did at the beginning and she responds with orgasm after orgasm. And don’t get the idea that it’s always me that initiates sex. Mum’s a great one for unzipping me while we’re watching television and taking me in her mouth, sucking and stroking until I squirt my come down her throat and she squeezes the last drop of spunk out of me before kissing me with slick lips and semen coated tongue.

But perhaps the biggest surprise is her predilection for anal sex; who would have that that the ultra-prim-and-proper Veronica would be so keen on something so dirty. For reasons of physiology, we limit it to a couple of times a week, sometimes with mum strapped to the bed and sometimes not. Our favourite position is with mum lying on her side, one leg on the bed, the other stuck straight up in a testament to her suppleness. I manoeuvre behind her and grasp her thigh, penetrating her lubricated hole easily. In this position I can look down and see my cock pump in and out of my mother’s anus. I can also see her fingers as they slide in and out of her vagina, her fingers coated with her juices, her nail varnish shining. She’s got very adept at switching to rubbing her clitoris in time to coincide with my orgasm and I think in those few seconds of intense mutual pleasure that I have never before and never will again feel so close to another human being.

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