Parent Trap: 1
Fake Flower Stories
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Author’s Note:
It goes without saying -- all characters in this story (and every story I will ever write) are over the age of 18.
It’s been a while since I finished a story. If you’ve read Happy Birthday Love Mom and subscribed to my publishing alerts, then you’re probably aware that I hit a wall due to work stress and some high pressure.
The good news?
I’m past it. I’ve got a new job. I’m ready. I’m writing and returning to a HUGE collection of unfinished stories that won’t take much more to start publishing. So, look forward to new stories and new parts of stories on a (reasonably) consistent basis.
This one is a departure from the storylines I normally write. I typically like to write moms as being nicer. I typically like to write the sons as being more deserving. It’s never been a dark story. But the simple fact is – I haven’t done a story about incest blackmail, and I’m getting people in my inbox begging for it.
If you want the sweeter, nicer stories where the incest is more about sweetness, and the transcending of taboos, then please let me know at fakeflowerstories@gmail.com. Of course, if you’re into this kind of stuff, also let me know. I’ve got a huge variety of incest stories in the works, all along the lines of mother/son pairings, but want to give allowance for some creativity. If you’re not into blackmail stuff, stay tuned; every kind of story you could possibly want is on the way.
So, after a long, long wait since the last release…
…enjoy.
Chapter 1
For every possible reason, I shouldn’t have been looking, but… Mom was bending over.
Way, way over.
The way her leggings stretched out over her ass, pulling so tight across her cheeks that they started to go transparent, awakened something deep inside me. It started to hint at the color of her pale skin, stretching so thin that I could see the texture of the weave, the way the threads separated, her creamy skin shining through. And then, underneath all that spandex, it became amazingly obvious.
Mom was wearing the panties I got her.
And that hit me hard.
Now, that's a bit of a weird thing for a mom to do, right? What Mom would wear panties that were given to her by her son? How fucked up would that be? Not just to take them, but to wear them, and to bend way, way over while doing the laundry, right in front of the gift giver.
Now here's the funny part. I might have bought them for my mom, and I might have put them in a nice box and put a little ribbon on it, and I might have strategically placed it on her windowsill where she could have found it before dad would.
But I definitely didn't put my name on it.
All I wrote, in messy cursive, was, "wear these for me today, and whatever you do, don't say anything. Just wear them for tonight."
Almost as if some lover had the gall to gift her new underwear. At her own house, outside her husband's room.
Dastardly, isn't it?
Obviously, some mystery lover hadn't done it. It was me, and in case you're thinking I'm fucking crazy, this is all for a good purpose. The simple fact is that she's been cheating, and the only way I could get any proof that this has been happening, is through this crazy little scheme.
I've had suspicions for a while that my mom's been cheating on dad. You know, ideas. Theories. She's always out late. She's always doing her makeup before going out to 'have fun with the girls', she's always coming back looking a little frazzled. Tired. Sweaty. Maybe even... used. I don't want to get too into how fucking angry I was when I started to piece it together.
Not that I had proof. Not a shred of it. Just a hunch, and the simple fact that mom looked worn out every time she came home, after having disappeared for hours almost every evening. Dad never seemed curious as to what she was doing. She told him off handedly that it was exercise with her friends, but five days a week? Six?
And it's not like I could gather proof. Not while I'm stuck at home.
But with these panties? It finally happened -- Mom finally wore them.
Now I had all the proof I needed.
The only thing was, I had no clue how to push forward. It's already extreme enough to go to a Victoria’s Secret, to buy the panties and to try and pretend that the cashier doesn't think you're a total freak. It's another to try and 'gotcha' your mother with said panties. What was I supposed to say? "Hey mom, can you do me a favor and show me the underwear you're wearing? Oh? Are those the panties your lover bought for you? Psyche! I was just posing as your lover, and now that you're caught, it's time to pay the price!"
The price, indeed.
I was honestly too angry to even figure out what angle I wanted out of confronting her. It's not like my dad was even a decent husband. Or that he didn't deserve it. I knew for a fact that he pretended that she didn't exist and that he liked to mess around with the office girls. I already had my own little blackmail agreement worked out with him - more money in my allowance, and a fifth of booze every month.
But now there was mom to deal with. And mom didn't handle the family bank accounts.
Maybe I had to be a little more tactful. A divorce was going to shake up everything at home. Maybe I could ask for more money, I guess, but it's not like mom had a job.
But based on the way her legs were shifting, the way each cheek of her ass kept moving up and down, I started to get an inkling.
A fucking crazy one.
"Honey?" Mom's voice startled me out of my fucked-up scheme. Her voice echoed in the drum of the clothes dryer. "Can you get me a screwdriver? One of your dad's socks got caught up here, and I might need you to help me pry it out."
"Sure," I said as I got up, carefully readjusting my cock so it would stop pressing so obviously through my pants.
"Fuck me, it's one of his expensive ones too," I heard her mutter. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her withdrawing from the dryer drum and settle into a kneeling position. She brushed her dark hair behind her shoulders and took a few deep breaths, her face red from the awkward way she was reaching into the dryer. Her chest heaved, the curve of her breasts under her shirt curving upward with a firmness I did not expect.
Especially since she wasn't wearing a bra.
Her nipples poked through, soft to where they didn't make points in the fabric, hard enough to see where her areolas rose on the tips of her tits.
Mom was pretty. "Pretty hot," my friends would say. She was a little curvy, just subtly stocky enough to let you know she was a mother, curvy in a ‘milfy’ sort of way, and her legs looked heavenly inside her leggings, as weird as it is for me to admit to all this. Once, one of my friends took a photo of my mom from behind and posted it in our group chat, pretending it was some random woman he saw at the grocery store. With the trap set, I opened my big fucking mouth and said how hot she was, and how I'd love to bust inside that ass while I had her bent over the apples in the produce section.
As you can imagine, my friends have never let me live it down.
But it did plant a weird seed in my head. If there was another woman out there with a body identical to my mom's, would I have noticed?
Or cared?
My mother's shape, above and below the waist, was undeniably hot. Objectively. No arguing against that.
Maybe, if I were honest with myself, my mother was actually... fuckable.
She was in a beauty pageant in her college sorority. She didn't win, but she kept a photo of herself at that time to remind her that she was beautiful and classy - back then, her face was cutely round, her lips extra plump and soft, her cheekbones like the gentle winding curve of her hips, and her waist to thigh curves were apparent even under the dress she wore for her pageant. Her waist was tight, the way she was turned in the photo emphasized a radical difference in size between her tummy and ass, an almost unreal ratio that caused guests to stare whenever they looked at her photo in the hall.