Wash Me -- A Mother/Son Story

Table of Contents:

Author’s Note:

Chapter 1:

Chapter 2:

Chapter 3:

Chapter 4:

Chapter 5:

Chapter 6:

End Note:

A Quick Note to the Reader:

If you’re looking for the Brazzers model of erotic incest stories, you’re going to be really disappointed with this one.

One of the things that I aim for in my stories in a healthy degree of buildup. It’s a lot slower, take a lot more time, and develops the struggle a lot more fully than most erotica bothers to put forward. In my stories, you’ll never read a ridiculous quickie where a mom and son initiate their relationship with a flimsy excuse like ‘mom, my penis hurts.’ ‘oh honey, let me fix it with my pussy.’ ‘okay, thanks mom.’

That’d be crazy. And unrealistic. And dumb.

Frankly, it’s the internal struggle that makes the story so fucking sexy.

If you want to see a mother and son, unbearably horny, fighting their desires because they’re afraid of the taboo world, but who keep thinking that maybe it’d be so delicious to give in and to kiss, to touch, to fuck, to breed, to satisfy each other in the way mom and son could, then…

Enjoy.

-fake flower

Chapter 1

Mom lit the candles with the kind of care that was rare in a person. Tonight, the night I turned eighteen, she moved slowly, letting the flame on the match determine the pace of her light fingers. Her hands moved gently, slowly. While she was mostly the kind of woman that moved with efficiency, purpose, elegant speed, tonight she was making careful time lighting the candles on my birthday cake.

The lights were off. All there was to brighten the room was the match and the growing blossom of light from the candles. She gave a little smile, said, “happy eighteenth,” and then presented it: the dainty dessert for two that she baked herself. A smiling face in red frosting fit neatly under the candles.

She got close, her clothes smelling like cinnamon.

Her chest, like milk.

Mom was pretty tonight. The candle flame lit up the gold in her hair and flickered across the clean lines of her corporate uniform. The light and her smile were warm. She was soft.

We cut the cake and talked about what it was like to be adults. While she spoke, her fingers would rest alongside her temple, she would look up and into the corner of the room, her graceful neck delicately straight, and she would gently narrow her soft eyes. Every time she said something important, she appeared so focused, thinking, capable. When combined with her tall and elegant figure, you almost felt like you were getting the wisdom of several generations at once from a modern queen. She really did have that effect.

Especially in those moments.

You really had to be lucky to have a mother like her. Annie was the kind of woman that ran a perfectly clean house, cooked like a professional chef, worked a full-time corporate job, half taught me all my schoolwork herself, and managed to seize promotions at every corner.

All without a husband.

Not that he’s dead, or anything.

Just kind of an asshole.

It was the kind of situation growing up where you didn’t really have to worry about not having a dad around – having Annie for a mom was enough. More than enough. She was mentor, caretaker, confidant, cook, disciplinarian, and anything else that the best pair of parents could collaborate to manufacture, and she was all of it, all at the same time.

You would have thought I’d show a bit more respect on the daily. Or that night, for that matter. Stealing her alcohol probably wasn’t the most thankful way I could repay her for helping me survive into adulthood.

But then again, I was now an eighteen-year-old guy with an entire basement full of wine my mom had yet to drink.

Maybe it wasn’t right of me to go digging around down there, and maybe it wasn’t what I’d be proud of when I was a parent myself, but I wanted to celebrate my legal adulthood for me. A little show of rebellious independence was the perfect gift from me to myself. Just a couple bottles from way, way in the back, something she wouldn’t miss, labels with words in French I didn’t understand.

They got the job done.

I watched some bad porn and jerked off, blisteringly drunk, and then passed out.

I woke up the next morning, officially an adult, murderous headache and all. Being eighteen started with a bang and a whimper.

It started with a hell of a lot more too.

Especially when it came to my mom.

While I cursed myself that morning and asked why I’d drink by myself instead of going to a movie or something with my friends, I realized we were out of aspirin. I guessed pharmaceuticals were a part of being an adult too, so like the grown up and responsible person I was, I decided the best thing to do was to explore my mom’s medicine cabinet.

And while I thought that it wouldn’t be a big deal, since Mom was supposed to be at work before I woke up, I barged right into the bathroom, rifled through her pills, ignored the tampon boxes, and then turned right around so that I could get out of there. It was my own personal contribution to keeping her privacy private.

As any reasonable and respectful son would.

But the quick steal didn’t happen the way I wanted it to. The privacy wasn’t as private as I hoped. And mom wasn’t at work.

She was in her bathtub.

It was one of those tubs that seemed to double as a jacuzzi. It was more than wide and large enough to allow her the luxury of stretching out, the full length of her body in a beautiful line, from end to end.

Now, I have to admit that I’ve always known my mother was pretty. Sometimes I admitted to myself that she was good looking. Beautiful, even.

And every once in a blue moon, when my friends would tell me how fucking hot my mom was, and that she was the posterchild of hot blondes, and how she had gorgeously heavy looking tits, and how she had long legs that they just wanted to lick at, and how she had an ass that always managed to press itself against the back of her skirt, and how she was the kind of hot boss or sexy schoolteacher archetype that could have made millions in porn, then I could internally, maybe, almost see where they were coming from.

In that instant, my mother, bare from head to toe, suspended nude in the warmth of her luxurious bathtub, proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that my friends were a hundred percent right.

Even if she was my mom.

Breasts. Heavy. Pale and shimmering and wet. Pushed up by her delicate arms, practically floating in the warmth. My mother’s pale nipples, pearly pink. Peaks glimmering under the surface. Flush cheeks, a flush chest, her eyes closed, her lips barely parted, red with heat and something I had never, ever seen in her before.

It was arousal.

In my mother’s hands, she clutched a silvery shower head, its hose drifting past her long, long, smooth legs, her dainty feet in a slight curl.

My perfect mom was masturbating.

The shower head was pressed somewhere. Somewhere just above her thighs. Just over a pale, golden patch, barely visible, growing more visible as she lifted one knee and as her legs started to part.

Mom really was a true blonde.

The sprayer gushed against her golden, triangle sculpted apex. Pubic hair in a neatly tended shape, a rush of water moving over a bit of soft pink beneath it. Mom’s leg kept moving, her legs spreading wider. Her eyes, pressed closed, lashes draped over colored cheeks, her brow furrowed as she focused, hard, on something, some scenario playing in her head. Headphones sealed over her ears, playing music or an audiobook or something – explaining perfectly how I somehow managed to get into her bathroom as she pleasured herself without being noticed.

This moment completely knocked my life upside down, erased the entire old reality.

Who was this person? This was my mom. This wasn’t my mom.

Was it?

The woman before me panted, the spray of water directed by trembling hands between her legs, her red, full mouth parted in the gasps I never knew she could make, that elegant, sexual nymph was the woman I knew my entire life. I watched her, stuck, unable to look away from her glistening, beautiful body.

And then she opened her eyes.

And then looked right at me.

Her mouth snapped closed, her eyes opened wide, the rest of her body froze, shower head included. The flush of color on her cheeks brightened as the sound of the rushing water seemed to multiply in the deafening silence. But what affected me most was the tone of my name in her mouth, that stammering name that was said with a shocked, scared breath, the note of pleasure filtering through it despite her shock. “A-Anthony?”

My mind connected a single, dirty thought in that instant, one that resonated through me more loudly than any thought ever did before.

I knew that it was how she would say my name.

If we were fucking.

If I was inside her. If my cock evoked my name from her begging, panting lips, it’s how she would say, Anthony, as if she were begging for more, as if I had forced my name from her mouth by filling her with cock, with ecstasy. If my own mother would let me.

In that instant there was something hard, painfully hard in my pants, pressing straight through.

Then she said my name again. Not with pleasure this time.

This time, it was because she yelled at me and threw the shower head at me while violently covering herself, her hands covering her chest and the little golden triangle at the top of her legs. The spray of the warm shower water and a small wave from her tub splashed against me while I tried to dodge and then sprinted out of her bathroom, stolen painkillers in hand, and tried to make it to my bedroom before mom could yell at me anymore.

How was I supposed to know she took the day off? How was I supposed to know she had a surprise outing planned for my eighteenth and that’s why she was at home, enjoying her morning, waiting for a convenient time to take us to my favorite restaurant?

Instead, I was grounded. Then she found the wine bottles and I was grounded some more.

Easily the most awkward birthday I’ve ever had.

And the best.

Chapter 2

You don’t forget a sight like that.

But we lived almost immediately afterward as if it was forgotten. I don’t think mom held it against me that I walked in on her. I don’t think she could tell that I now had a very new, and very concrete fantasy that seemed to intrude into my head every single time I saw her. It suddenly got hard to listen to her talking about work, while her body turned to the side every time she prepared food, while the heavy, teardrop breasts under her shirt bounced as she’s made up and down movements over a cutting board.

I could see, vividly, the exact color of her nipples in my mind, the way her breasts pushed together in the tub while her arms mimed a similar movement while she kneaded fresh bread. It was even worse whenever she’d say my name. Every time she called it, all I could hear was the way she said it in her bathroom that day.

“A-Anthony.” Gasping.

It was worse when I’d end the day, go to my room, and hear the shower turn on in our main bathroom. Or if she spent a long time in her own room, morning or night, and I’d wonder if she were taking a soak. Or every time we went shopping and she’d pick up some new scent of bubble bath soap. I’d start dreaming again, having to fight my body trying to betray me with an erection.

Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice my obsession.

Or that I was now jerking off to the thought of her, to the fantasy of her, multiple times a day, that my wastebasket was filling up with cumrags produced to the thought of her voice as she said my name, her body’s pleasure coursing through it, accompanies by the thought of her heavy, hanging breasts, slick with water.

I felt ashamed.

Embarrassed even, that I was now attracted to my mom, my actual mom, not even a stepmom, and that a huge reason I was trying so hard to keep from disappointing her was I somehow wanted her to only say my name for, you know, positive reasons.

So life went on and I started a degree at the local college, and picked up a corporate internship thanks to some well-placed phone calls by my mother. It looked like I would follow a fairly similar track to her if her connections had anything to say about it. All I had to do was show up, well groomed, shuffle papers four times a week, and if I graduated and still held the internship, then I was guaranteed a cushy job with an office and the promise that I wouldn’t have to do a single truly productive thing for society for the next forty years.

All I had to do was not fuck that up. At all. Mom’s emphasis, not mine.

It almost looked like I was set up for a conventional, healthy life with a decent job and only a secret kink that made talking to my gorgeous, single, sex symbol mother awkward. I thought that maybe my life would turn out mostly normal after all.

Until weeks later, our water heater broke.

I could tell something was very, very wrong by the way mom’s face darkened at the plumber. When we called them out because we suddenly didn’t have any hot water, I thought that maybe it was just a little issue with the water heater. Nothing that couldn’t be solved by the magic of a $500 bill from Versa Plumbing. But unfortunately, the visit was running a lot longer than I thought it would, and mom was on the receiving end of what looked like very, very bad news.

When mom’s eyes widened and she suddenly shouted, “A whole week?”, my stomach dropped out from under me. Mom only looked that upset, or yelled, when things were serious.

After a short exchange, the plumber gave a shrug and turned to leave. Mom’s arms were folded, and I saw her looking into the water heater closet, angry as hell. As the plumber passed me on the way out, he tried making eye contact with me and said, “I don’t know what else to do for you guys. It’s like everybody in the state wanted a new water heater all at once. You’ll have to wait.”

“We need a whole new heater?” I asked, incredulous.

The guy shrugged again. Like a plumber. “I’m not even sure we’ll be able to install it for you right away. We’ll call you in a week. Or if that’s not good enough you can try calling around. If you can get anyone else in a week, I’ll be surprised.”

Now it made sense why mom was so pissed off about it. There was a massive snow front coming in– by Tuesday we’d get several inches at once and everyone was preparing to enjoy a few weeks of being snowed in.

It meant that most companies were going to be harder to reach – they’d be busy with winter repairs; burst pipes, frozen lines, and the million other emergencies that had to be fixed, icy roads or not.

“By the way,” the plumber leaned a little closer to me. “Your mom. She’s single, right?” I noticed his eyes looking a little too closely at her legs.

“No,” I lied, pissed. “Does your boss know you cruise for dates on the clock?”

The plumber shrugged, again, and smiled as he walked off. “Sometimes, for a beautiful woman like that, it’s worth asking. See you in a week, kid. Enjoy your cold water.”

He drove off, and I wondered if maybe there was any wisdom in asking lonely housewives if they were single.

Inside, mom wasn’t any happier. If we were out of hot water, it meant a few things. It meant no hot water to wash dishes. It meant our dishwasher was probably going to be nearly useless. It meant washing our hands was now going to be an ordeal. It meant…

“Mom?” I asked. “How are we going to shower?”

Mom looked up at me distractedly, still bent over and looking at some of the connections on the water heater. Her back was arched forward, her legs and bottom were tight against her leggings.

I completely understood why the plumber was staring at her earlier. I was doing the same thing, but made sure to look away respectfully. At least, once she turned around.

“Oh. Showers. Sure.” Mom stepped back, rubbing her temples. “He said the heating element’s barely working. It’s warming everything, but slowly. Not enough for full on baths, but it might be enough to shower if we ration it.”

Mom looked at me and said sternly, her pretty lips drawing thin, “which means you’re going to keep your showers to a couple minutes. Maximum. No more of these thirty-minute soaks you’ve been taking recently.”

“Alright,” I said, trying not to think too hard about it, as if mom would somehow read my mind and realize I was jerking off in the shower.

I was definitely using the shower to recreate the fantasy environment where I saw her in the nude, suspended in the warmth and steam of her tub.

After seeing what I saw, who wouldn’t?

“So, it sounds like we’re just going to make do, huh? Conserve or something?”

“Something like that,” mom groaned, mourning the loss of her own bath time, and left for her room. “Go ahead and shower. We’ve got work in the morning. Just leave some warm water for me, alright?”

I really did try to comply with her request and made my shower as short as possible. The water started out nice enough, but by the end of a minute, I could tell that the water tank was dipping low. I toweled off, dressed for bed, and texted mom that I was done while I went back to my room. The plan was that she’d have to use the shared shower in the center of the home – the one I used, just because it was right next to the water heater and it was our best bet for keeping as much of the warmth in it as possible.

That was a preview of Wash Me -- A Mother/Son Story. To read the rest purchase the book.

Add «Wash Me -- A Mother/Son Story» to Cart