Ding-ding-ding!
Welcome to tonight’s match, folks!
A colossal coliseum crusher! An epically engaging encounter! A sexually sizzling sparring of sultry sinners!
In one corner of the ring, we have my mom—the queen bee. The head matriarch. The prime rib of pussy. Mid-forties and still rocking in sexy silk stockings. Still in great jogging shape but with that added extra pound or two for me to use as comfortable cushioning while in classic missionary mode on top of her; her legs locked around my back and her mouth trying to muffle a barely-audible “I love you” with her plush lips pressing against mine as I’m injecting warm streams of smoothly flowing cum inside her bushed vagina.
In the opposite corner of the ring, we have my aunt—the challenging hornet. The perky princess. The crème brulée of cunts. Mid-thirties and still gettin’ dirty. A bit more slender with rounded tits unbelievably real enough to fool even the best plastic surgeons; bottomed off with a posterior crafted firmly enough to feel nice against my pelvis as I’m slapping my hard meat into her from behind while holding the reins of her hips. My eyes trail up along the shining sweat gleam line down the middle of her bare back and meet hers as she’s tossing her hair aside to look back at me over her right shoulder while she begs me to fucking fill her fiery smooth-shaven twat with my big load.
And here I am, the ringmaster in the middle of a tantalizing throwdown of the titans! A bawdy brawl of big-breasted bitches! That’s right, ladies and gentlemen—you’re here this evening on the most dangerously dame-damaging day of the year… Valentine’s Day.
And it’s my mom versus my aunt for who will receive my heart—among other things—as my one true valentine.
I already know what you’re thinking. This lucky twenty-year-old fuck is beside himself in worry because his mother and aunt are fighting over his dick when you would put your hand through a wood chipper just to have the sexual taboo rush of either of yours even accidentally seeing your glory rod? “He should be out playing the fucking lottery with that kind of unbelievably incestuous fortune!”
Heh. First world problems, I guess.
Surely you know the typical territorial tussles of women when it comes to fighting over a guy, but sisters? That’s a whole other level.
I considered myself lucky enough after landing the first of the two—my mother. I always had a sexual curiosity toward her, not stemmed from anything in particular.
Maybe the fact that my father left me to be the man of the house when I was young had a good deal to do with it, but aside from that, I don’t consider myself psychologically damaged or twisted in any way.
It was simply an illusory itch I had to scratch, which I did through masturbation and the rewinding thought of seeing her in her slightly open bathrobe in the morning. Her hair still a little wet and stringy as beads of leftover water trickled every now and then down her front as she reached across the table to grab more toast, where the front of her robe would barely and loosely flounder open to reveal a little sneak peek of the side of one of her curved bare breasts, like pearly gates promising riches within if only I could use a crowbar to further pry the cotton material fully unrestricted.
I guess the main kink kick I had set myself on consisted of simply accidentally catching her naked or vice-versa, which proved a little more challenging than I thought. I had to make it look natural but damn if I wasn’t being awarded the opportunities. I either wouldn’t be home when she showered or she would shower and change right there in the bathroom. I also tried to prolong my changing in my bedroom after a shower, casually holding my towel as I pretended to look at something on my phone hearing some footsteps approach my door, but they would usually keep on going down to her bedroom, clothing me instead in disappointment.
Ironically, when I finally achieved my goal, it wasn’t even intended. Go figure. I had walked into her room one night with the intention of getting an extra blanket from her closet when I froze in my tracks to see her gasp and quickly swipe her towel from the bed, covering her front side as she slightly crossed her legs in cartoonish embarrassment.
I muttered a “shit” and adverted my eyes with a shielding hand, apologizing and explaining my intentions of looking for a blanket before beelining back out.
I tried to register the split-second flash of full frontal form I had barely captured so I could use it as inspirational tugging material later on, but it was too quick and I was too unprepared. I wish I had a photographic memory, because I’m sure that image would’ve been worth a thousand blows. Still, it didn’t stop me from using that excitement of actually being there as a witness to get myself off gloriously.
The turning point was New Year’s Eve, where the two of us had decided a snowy night in would suit our interests best. Mom was drunk off wine by ten. I was buzzing off the bubbles of mere Coca-Cola. At some point our living room tableside conversation had ventured into relationships, or in that present case, lack thereof. My last girlfriend was five months’ prior and wasn’t even that serious. Mom had barely dated since dad left. She reiterated her woeful case of the blues by giggling between sips of her chardonnay that my manly eyes were the only ones to have even seen her naked lately.
I, of course, played the role of the good supportive son by reminding her of the fact that her motherly duties over the years came at a cost and that she should consider getting back into the dating game because she still had a lot to offer, both in mind and in body. She, of course, waved it off like a typical modest mother by fluttering her lips so her bangs would briefly float before debating the matter with a statement petitioning the unruly shape of a forty-five-year-aged feminine body.
I scoffed and retorted otherwise. She jogged or walked a mile or two every day. She ate healthy. Most women her age would kill to have a body like hers. She blushed and reciprocated that any girl would be lucky to have me for a boyfriend with how cute I was, and that she was sorry my last fling didn’t flourish into something more fascinating.
Now let me tell you something—you don’t know shit when it comes to incest. Most of those taboo incest porno movies have it wrong because they usually lack two important elements: time and hesitation. The truly bad ones have some mother with breasts undesirably five times larger than her small-brained head giving her eager curious son a wink while saying, “Oh son, you like my gigantic tits, do you? But we shouldn’t do this; it’s wrong! Oh, well! Let’s fuck anyway!” The end.
When the fact of reality is that real life incest situations generally develop over time with little tidbits of incidents building into an eventual crescendo of connection.
Maybe it didn’t shape quite like that with my mother and I, but the second element of hesitation was surely present.
She had casually quipped that it was nice for another man to see her naked, if even for a split-second and even if it was her own son. She depressingly glazed over the case she was creating with the primitive notion that she missed simply being naked around someone, even if it wasn’t for a reaction. I latched onto her point that I felt the same; being naked was always fun but wasn’t nearly ever as fun as being naked around someone else and knowing that they’re seeing you naked. The fact that it was a family member just made it all that much more exhilarating. At some point, not knowing what track the train was taking in this bizarrely unorthodox conversation with my own mother, I had slipped (maybe even intentionally, who knows?) my coy but failed plans of trying to get her to accidentally see me naked. Damn, those mind-altering and inebriating bubbles of Coke!
Maybe I admitted it to make her feel better from her own dejected demeanor, or that I too missed being observed by pretty eyes, but I joked that our seemingly newfound mutual intrusiveness for natural and casual nudity meant we probably belonged in a nudist community (which conjured a hearty and heavy laugh from her for a solid minute).
And after another long gulp from her flute glass, she rested her doe eyes on me for a dragging moment before breaking the silence by asking if I really and seriously still did want to see her naked.
I tried to play it off by saying it was a curiosity of no alarming big deal and that she was drunk, but she proceeded to set the glass down on the table and take off her slinky nightwear until she was fully donned in her birthday suit (and her birthday wasn’t until July). Comprehensible English was jumbled inside my mouth like the world’s most difficult word search puzzle as I sat staring with my jaw ajar.
She played it off by noting it was all in good, harmless fun—making justifiable anecdotes and such that the bare human form was meant to be appreciated and valued by anyone related or unrelated whereas perversity didn’t need to be an inclusive necessity. I in turn played it off like she was clearly way too smashed and somewhere muddled in there from her was the whole “nothing you haven’t seen before” and “we’re just family; it doesn’t equate to anything evil so stop being a party-pooper and loosen up” proclamations.
She asked if I minded getting naked, too. There was something in there somewhere about a “friendly revisit to seeing each other naked after all this time as a fun and innocent way to ring in the new year”, but my mind was short-circuiting so much in disbelief at that point that I couldn’t rehash how it went down exactly if I tried.
I just know that I blinked and I was standing butt naked across from her in the glow of the lights from our Christmas tree still up behind us, penis hanging naturally and despite the tiny aura of awkwardness caking up my rational mind, actually giving me that liberation I had been craving.
“There’s no body shaming in this family, just artistic appreciation,” she said, but the slight slur in her slippery speech pronouncing it “shamming” and “apprethiation” cemented she was well over the inebriated edge.
And about twenty-five minutes after that…
My cum was inside my mother.
It took us weeks to wrap our minds around what had happened that night, balancing and fighting with the moral implications of boundaries that were normally not meant to be crossed like that. She was more on the apprehensive side, dropping the words “mistake” and “shame” quite commonly, while I, trying not to be conclusive one way or the other, simply attempted to play devil’s advocate by extinguishing her claims of being solely responsible for initiating that dirty deed when both of us were in fact equally guilty parties. Her drunken state did not admiral her into taking advantage of me or vice versa. After all, aren’t the most deeply-seeded truthful things said and done in that condition?
Hence where that second element of “hesitation” came into play. I tried telling her that if nothing else, it was simply something beautiful we shared together, and that it shouldn’t complicate our pre-existing relationship. I wasn’t working on getting her back in the sack because I was simply managing damage control. I didn’t want to lose my mom as my mom, after all. I was still a human being after committing incest.
But alas, a good two months had passed, and it happened again. A flurry of spontaneous passion and some much-needed stress relief for us resulted in me rocking on top of her nude body on her bed, looking down into her glassy eyes and huffing that I was about to cum as my hard cock stuffed its way smoothly in and out of her bushed pouch.
“Cum inside me,” she whispered, and the bursting flow of my warm streams filled her as our stomachs pressed together.
For the next six months, it was a flurry of fantastic fun. The two of us had experienced something on a level we hadn’t thought possible. It was purely sexual, and felt purely normal. She was like my in-house girlfriend, and I was giving her the lustful longing that most women her age feared men would start to lose interest in.
Hell, maybe I just got lucky, you say, and it was easier for me because my mom would actually be considered good looking by anyone you asked. Most of you, while forever appreciating your mother and not coldly wanting to use an ugly word such as “ugly”, would share the same sentiments as your buddies by laying the claim that she wouldn’t even crack a “two” on a scale of “ten” as far as looks were concerned. So maybe I am a little biased and privileged in that sense.
But all I can tell you from my experience is that you haven’t experienced fucking until you experience fucking your mother. Why does it feel so magnificent compared to a woman I am not blood related to? Maybe it transcends the psychological rush of dopamine and adrenaline released doing something you know is supposed to be wrong and substantially illegal. I think it has to do with DNA. They say bad things happen when like-DNA mixes. It’s the opposite. There’s something in there that makes it feel way better, way more magically psychedelic. Maybe it’s fucking your point of origin. Home is where the hard-on is, after all, and my compass needle seemed to be pointing a straight hard south to my mother’s nurturing no-no nook.
People knock it solely because they haven’t tried it. True there is emotional aftershock risk. Some Bible-thumper might try me as an inhuman heretic. But not taking risks in life is what would make me inhuman.
Or maybe I’m just getting too damn analytical by playing psychiatrist and starting to bore the shit out of you now.
You want the moans and groans and grunts, right? The “unh’s” and “mmm’s” and those long “unnnngghhhhh” cumming sounds. Well, calm the fuck down and please keep it in your pants for a hot minute, all right? That goes for you ladies, too—keep your headlights in their bra and just hold off from twisting the brights on, would ya?
Oh, that’s right. You want to know about my aunt, too. I remember now that this was going somewhere. Two busty bare broads boxing naked in a ring, right? Maybe not quite that literal, but let’s continue, shall we?
My aunt. The wildcard. The red herring. They say that lightning doesn’t strike twice.
Maybe I should start buying those scratch-offs after all, huh?
I always thought my aunt was attractive from a cosmetic point of view. Far more sex jokes from my friends growing up toward her than were missiled in my mother’s direction. But I was never quite bestowed the same sexual itch in regards to her than that which I had for dear old mom, despite my aunt being hotter. I guess comforting maternal tidbits helped make up for that and put her in the lead.
Regardless, it was my aunt’s penchant for eternally chasing her older sister’s validation that probably wound up being the main reason my dong would additionally wax her anatomically-awesome auntie ass.
I didn’t know it at first, but she had actually caught my mother and I frolicking one afternoon. She stopped by the house to drop some stuff off and heard those jungle-like sex noises coming from my closed bedroom before quietly taking her leave without notice. Now, had that particular romp come from my mother’s bedroom, she would have surely kicked her sisterly inquisitions into high gear and asked her sibling to dish out the details of the mystery man. But seeing as it was sourced from her nephew’s domain, she eventually revealed to me an assumption was asserted that it was just some typical girlfriend material from school.
It was the second time weeks later that ended up shocking her to her core.
She again popped into the quiet house to return some of my mother’s things, and after an unanswered announcement, made her way upstairs to my mother’s room where she passed by my door shielding sounds of naked slapping skin and blissful moans. I can only guess she smirked and rolled her eyes with some kind of chuckling thought behind the awkward luck of her ears being privy to this for a second time but followed in rational realization by some kind of “well, he is a twenty-year-old guy” reclamation.
It was on her venturing way back past my door where the word “mom” blurting from my mouth caused her to freeze. She probably thought she heard wrong.
But then she was positive she heard it again amongst the flurried flux of fucking sounds.
The door wasn’t closed all the way. She hesitated and debated the morals of privacy invasion, even if from an undetected voyeuristic perspective. But she just wanted to be sure. Just for a quick second.
A clear view of sweaty mom boobs bouncing as she galloped on top of her son laying on his back in bed was pretty damn solid confirmation. She blinked and tried comprehending her state of sanity while trying to maintain her elusive concealment behind the ajar door.
Yup.
Her naked sister. On top of her naked son. His dick clearly connected somewhere within that darkened bush between her legs and purposely jutting stabs of pleasure into her body.
She silently closed the door back over and left.
Later revelations to me told a tale of curious debate in the…