Motherfucker by rat_race
Discover the enticing story of 'Motherfucker' by rat_race, a provocative gay erotic tale that explores passion, desire, and the complexities of modern relationships. Dive into an unforgettable narrative that brings forbidden fantasies to life. Read now for a thrilling journey that challenges boundaries!<br/>
This is the story of how my traveling back home to spend the Christmas holidays with my mother and my younger sister unexpectedly turned into an incestuous, life-changing event for me.
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Motherfucker
by rat_race
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I didn’t mean for something like this to ever happen. And I certainly didn’t mean for it to keep taking place over and over again. But that didn’t stop it from happening. It only made me feel guilty and ashamed about what I was doing.
But those feelings of guilt and shame still didn’t stop me, a 35-year-old man, from fucking my own 57-year-old mother on a regular basis–and looking forward to each time that we had sex.
Let me back up a little bit, and tell you my story. And maybe you’ll understand. Maybe you won’t. But I don’t really care at this point in my life. I know that what my mother and I have together is a very special, loving relationship. And it has been that way, long before we ever began having sex together.
My father, Sam, suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack five years ago, leaving my mother, Janie, who was 52 at the time of his death, to live all by herself in our three-bedroom, ranch-style family home in Beaumont, Texas.
My dad worked in the oil fields outside Beaumont, and was a very physical kind of guy. And as far as I could tell, he absolutely loved two things: his booze (BTW, he was not an alcoholic, thank God) and his sex, which Mother was always more than happy to provide him on demand.
I know. Because when I was growing up, I could hear Mom and Dad going at it in their bedroom through the non-insulated interior walls of our old house. The fact that Mom was a real screamer during her orgasms, and that my bedroom just happened to share the same interior wall with their master bedroom, coupled with the fact that my parents’ bed and my bed were pushed up against that same wall (on either side of it, of course), only served to make me totally aware of each and every time that they were having sex during the nighttime hours.
When I was a young boy, I assumed that Dad was somehow hurting Mom during the night. But I knew that it wasn’t really any of my business.
And besides, I never heard Mom complain about anything that my dad did the night before, whenever she was up early the next morning, making breakfast for the family, and doing so in a very loving, cheerful manner, I might add. Mom would always give Dad a big kiss when he would finally walk into the kitchen to sit down to have his breakfast before he headed off to work.
Not only that, but the next morning, I never saw any obvious bruises anywhere on Mom’s body–at least on the parts that I could actually see when she had clothing on, that is.
And so I was happy to go on about the business of being a young boy, and let Mom and Dad deal with their own late-night screaming stuff.
One time, I almost asked my mom about all the screaming and moaning coming from her bedroom the night before. But then I decided that it was in my best interest not to mention anything, since she didn’t feel that it was worth mentioning to me herself.
After I had reached puberty and learned more about “the birds and the bees,” I quickly realized that Dad wasn’t hurting Mom at all during the night. He was having sex with her.
And whatever he was doing was making Mom orgasm her ass off. And that explained all the moans and groans and loud screams that I heard coming through our shared bedroom wall during the night.
It also explained why Mom would always be grinning like a Cheshire Cat whenever she was fixing breakfast for the family the very next morning.
Speaking of my family, I was an only child until 12 years later, when my little sister, Lacey, was born. But I was still my parents’ only son, and so much older than my sister, that I barely related to her at all. I mean, how could I? She was still an infant by the time that I turned 13.
So for all intents and purposes I had the blessed life of an only-child. And of course, I took advantage of that the best I could, treating my sister as a kind of living doll, throughout the earlier part of her life.
By the time my little sister, Lacey, had finally reached puberty at around age 12 (according to Mom), I was already 24 years old, and away at college, working on my masters degree.
So my only sister and I usually never saw each other in person, much less kept in touch. I only saw Lacey at key family events, like Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or the occasional family reunion, or at some distant relative’s wedding, etc.
So now that you have some background information, it’s on with my story:
It was three days before Christmas, and Lacey and I had both traveled back home to spend Christmas with Mom in Beaumont; the only difference being that Lacey had arrived at Mom’s house the day before I did. My sister and I had both planned to return back to our respective homes and lives the day after Christmas.
By this point in Lacey’s life, she had dropped out of college, and she was now the trophy wife of a high-powered business man, named Tim, who didn’t have the time or the inclination to spend Christmas with Lacey at her mother’s house.
Instead, Tim took off to London to go close some kind of important business deal for one of the international companies that he owned.
For the last several years Lacey and her husband, Tim, had been trying to start a family, but “getting Lacey pregnant” seemed to be the one thing that Tim couldn’t do for her, no matter how much he tried (in between business trips, that is).
Of course, Lacey was only 23, and so she really wasn’t that worried about the “getting pregnant” stuff, since she still had several years left on her biological clock. And she suspected that Tim might have a low sperm count or something that was keeping him from being able to get her pregnant.
As for me, I was 35 and still a virgin, believe it or not. I mean, yes, I was an expert at jacking off–because that pretty much all I ever did sex-wise ever since I had reached puberty.
Sure, I had a couple of girlfriends in high school, and a few more in college. But none of my relationships ever got past the “making out in the back seat of a car” phase. And so the most I had ever managed to do with any of my ex-girlfriends on our dates was to make out with them, and then later, after dropping them off at their homes or apartments, I would go back home by myself feeling all horny with a bad case of “blue balls,” and I would jack off like crazy to try to release all that pent-up sexual tension in the only way I knew how.
Well, Lacey was staying in her old bedroom upstairs at our family home, just across the hall from my old bedroom, where I was staying. And of course, Mom still slept in the same master bedroom down at the end of the hallway that she and Dad had shared for so many years.
After dinner the first night that I was there at the house, Lacey went out clubbing with some of her old high school friends, leaving Mom and me alone in the house. And that’s when Mom hit me with that very first bombshell.