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Five different stories, five different sexual situations, five different mothers whom are caught by five different sons doing things that moms should not be doing! This contains the first five books of Caught By My Son: 1. Anal In The Attic! Amy decides to sneak up to the attic for a little self pleasure, when her husband and her boys are busy in the yard. Little does she know, her oldest son is on to her habits- and he follows her upstairs, where he catches her doing something that sons should never see their mommies doing! 2. Army Orders! Barbara, a devout Christian, had never planned on cheating on her husband. Life changes and things happen, and now Barbara seeks satisfaction with random young men. Little does she know that the ad she put on the internet is going to be answered- by a sergeant who takes command of her and her son! 3. Blacked In The Barn! Linda is everything a Texas woman is supposed to be- a former cheerleader who married the star football player, she is a stay at home mom on the family's ranch. Her dirty secret is that she likes Black cock- but what will happen when her son finds this out? 4. Blowing His Boss! Bree is a good mom, and she will do anything for her son to succeed. When her son, an eighteen year old drop out, gets out of jail, she knows she has to get him a good paying job- even if that means she must break her marriage vows- with a blowjob-obsessed boss! Little does she realize, her less than grateful son threatens to reveal her actions- unless she gives him the job he really wants! 5. Blowing My Brother! Not all stereotypes are true- Gina is an Italian American woman who is tall, and forceful, an independent attorney who is proud to be an “out” lesbian after two bad marriages to men. She loves women, but she still craves cock- and the only man she trusts to give her what she wants is her brother! What happens when her son discovers that Gina loves her brother in more than a family way? Contains: Anal, Barely Legal Boys, Brother Sister, Cheating Wife, Creampie, Dominant Man, Dominant Mom, Dominant Son, Dominant Woman, Exhibitionism, Female Masturbation, Interracial, Italian, MILF, Mom Son, Older Woman Younger Man, Pregnant, Reluctance, Squirting, Submission, Threesome (MFM), Twincest, Voyeurism
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CHAPTER ONE Anal In The Attic
CHAPTER TWO Army Orders
CHAPTER THREE Blacked In The Barn
CHAPTER FOUR Blowing His Boss!
CHAPTER FIVE Blowing My Brother!
CHAPTER SIX Other Books
Anal In The Attic
What a perfect day.
So far, everything had been going good for a Saturday- for once, both me and my husband had off from work (as a waitress, that is a rarity), and in an even rarer occurrence, my children were actually not fighting. Breakfast had been a relatively basic affair- toast, jam, and cold cereal- but the greatest part of the meal was that I did not have to play the referee.
As a mother, I have many jobs- in addition to serving customers at a local eatery, at home I am still expected to be the primary provider of housework. My husband works too- at a local factory that makes, of all things, toilet bowls- and I understand that the last thing he wants to do when he gets off work is to help with the cleaning. Normally, I allow him to get away with this. As in any marriage or other long term romantic relationship, over the years you learn which battles are worth fighting- and which ones are not.
We live in what could be called a normal town, in a normal house- or as close to normal is, nowadays, anyway. Our home is located on the end of a tree lined street, though it is far from a modern house, or an up and coming new development. Our part of Ohio was much as it had been for the last century or so- a town that had more closed factories than open ones, with streets that needed patching and people that needed steady work. The neighborhood we lived in was unremarkable, with the same homes that had stood for decades. It may not have been the wealthiest part of town, but at least it wasn’t a crime ridden inner city slum.
Jeff had pushed me into agreeing to move here not long after we were married, twenty five years ago, with the idea that this would be our starter home. His father was one of the senior members of the union at his company, so Jeff was not worried about ever losing his job. Plus, toilets are always going to be needed, and while China can make almost everything cheaper than Ohio can, the quality requirements of personal porcelain ensured that they would never take over this market. Jeff thought that eventually he would replace his father in his position, once the older man retired, and maybe even become the shop steward. When those days arrived, we would be moving out of the city and into the country- this was just temporary.
Instead, in this nine hundred square foot two story building, with it’s faded blue-gray paint and old fashioned style pane windows, we had lived ever since. While Jeff had never been laid off- even in the recent depression- he had not become his father. The union was disestablished, thanks to some wrangling by the company and idle threats that intimidated less stalwart workers into signing it away, so there would not be another shop steward. Jeff didn’t get his wage or benefits cut- as part of the agreement, the current employees maintained their pay rates- but the once certain future of an eventual solid thousand dollar a week income was as likely as winning the lottery. I had given up the dream of a brand new suburban home, but I should not complain.
Jeff had been smart enough to buy this place when he did- even the other houses on our block were now renting for double or triple our mortgage payments. How the new employees managed to survive, with their wages less than Jeff started at thirty years ago, was beyond me.
Be grateful you don’t have to figure that out.
Raising three boys and a girl in a house with three small bedrooms is a challenge. Siblings will fight anyway- it is as natural as puppies biting each others tails- but with all three of our sons living in the same room, in a triple bunk bed, the fighting had been nearly constant since they had all become teenagers. Brothers fight differently than sisters do- I have only one sister, and Jeff was an only child- and sometimes it could be difficult to understand exactly what they were arguing about. As a girl, I had fought with my older sister about things such as boys to date or clothes that I wanted to borrow- my boys may not want to share each others clothes, but they always seemed to get into fist fights over everything from video games to who got to borrow my car.
Hopefully this was going to change soon- our oldest son, Charles, had just turned eighteen, and was about to graduate from high school. I did not want to push him out of our home- that would be wrong to do- but I hoped that he would get into a college that was halfway decent, with ample dorm space. One less son at home, reduced the arguing factor substantially, and since he was the oldest, he always knew how to manipulate the others into doing what he wanted. If his sister annoyed him, then the boys would gang up on her- if he was mad at one of his brothers, than he would play the other one off against him.
Charles didn’t have terrible grades, but his high school career had been far from stellar. He wasn’t interested in sports, not that Jeff had been either, and he wasn’t an Einstein- just an average every day kid. I was hoping that he was going to get into college somewhere, without us having to pay the tuition- but there was a good chance that he was going to be living home for more than just a few months. Our credit was okay, but a second mortgage to send one child to school was not fair to the others, even if we could afford another payment every month.
This was one of the reasons that I had been taking more shifts at the restaurant lately. I had been working at this place for almost a decade- it wasn’t the best place to work, or to eat, but it stayed busy enough to justify staying employed there. Plus, with almost all women in this town who were not working at a factory seeking waitressing jobs, I knew that jumping from one place to another at the slightest offense or the slightest idea that the grass was greener on the other side was foolish. It was better to stay put, and I knew it.
At forty seven, I can’t lie- I was tired of slinging hash and bringing eggs and bacon to hungry truckers and drunk college students. Don’t get me wrong- being a waitress isn’t all bad. While it is definitely not the line of work for everyone, it does have certain perks. I come home with money in my pocket every day, and though we usually need to spend it right away to fix something or someone, at least we never have a day when we are completely tapped out of funds. My feet are always tired when I come home, and last night had been no exception.
Jeff may not have been a man to push a vacuum cleaner or even pick up his own clothes, but at least he was skilled with his hands when it came to repairs. He had kept this house from falling apart, which was a definite accomplishment. When we had purchased the place, the building was already showing it’s age- after our long time of living here, it was definitely holding together due to Jeff’s handiness with a set of tools. On Saturdays, there was always some project or another that my husband had to do- and I usually was working a double shift.
Today I had off, and as I poured myself a cup of coffee in our small kitchen, I watched from the window as Jeff co-ordinated our sons into a reluctant work team. The lawn was getting bad again- for some reason, people seem to toss trash all over the place, and the wind always blew beer cans and soda bottles into our yard. Jeff stood there in his old tobacco stained overalls, a gift from his grandfather when he got his job at the plant, as I decided what I was going to do for the day.
I would have gladly helped with the mechanical work, but Jeff was convinced that my help was really just a way for me to direct him. Partially this is true, of course- a man may know how to cut the grass or pick up trash, but it takes a woman’s eye and touch to define the smaller details. The rosebushes in front of the house were my idea- Jeff would have just as soon let the front of the house be as plain as the other homes on our street, but I had wanted something more than a lawn that was half-browned year round to greet people as they passed by our home.
The only time I usually had to myself was two or three mid afternoons a week- I worked mornings, the busiest times at the restaurant (a bonus for being there longer than almost anyone else)- and the rest of the time, someone else was always around. The whole family in the early morning, my kids in the later afternoon, and Jeff as soon as he arrived home every evening at five thirty sharp. Today the boys were busy outside, our daughter was staying at her best friend’s house across town, and I had the house to myself for the next few hours.
In this precious alone time, there were many things I did- sometimes, I simply enjoyed music. My husband hates new country, and my kids are more into rap or r and b or whatever it is called now, so I would turn up the stereo and listen as loud as I wanted. You can’t enjoy a song , really enjoy a song, when someone is bitching in your ear about it, or you are busy at work.
The one thing I did for myself- and completely for myself- was that I like to masturbate when nobody is around.
I know- it’s crazy for a full grown woman to act like a young man, and play with herself as soon as she is alone- but it is what it is.
The sex life I have with Jeff still exists. No, we don’t fuck like we did when we were first married. Anyone who says that their sex life has stayed the same with any partner they have been with more than a few years is a liar- they may still be having sex, as me and my husband are, but it is not the same type of sex (even if it is the same quantity of sex). When you are young and don’t have kids, you tend to be more wild- me and Jeff were- but as the relationship, and bodies, change, so does the sex life that exists between two people.
Jeff has never been a bad lover- he isn’t completely selfish, even if once he gets off he tends to forget that I sometimes still need a few more moments of touching- and he still isn’t an unattractive man. For a fifty year old, I can honestly say that my husband has been holding up well- his hair is thinner, though he isn’t bald, and maybe he could use to lose a few pounds, but all in all, he still looks much like he always has looked.
For me, appearance is important, even if it isn’t the most important part of determining how good sex is.
I am forty seven, and I know that I am not some young woman anymore- my breasts sag a little, my face has some slight age lines, and my ass is not as firm as it used to be- but I take pride in how I look. Just as Jeff has not turned into a dad bod, I have made sure that I have not let myself go. His appearance may not be the most important thing to either him, or me, but to me, looking good is not an option- maybe I don’t look like I am twenty, but I don’t look bad for being nearly into the second half of a century!
Another benefit of being a waitress, is that it is physically strenuous work. Maybe it doesn’t seem difficult to carry food to tables- even at a Mexican restaurant with large serving trays, nothing usually weighs more than a few pounds- but when you are on your feet all day, you are burning calories more than you realize. Some waitresses of course make up for this by drinking large amounts of soda, canceling out these benefits, but I decided after losing one of my back teeth that it was time to quit pop. That was seven years ago, and in that time, my work has made me more toned and fit than I was when I was thirty-five.
I am about five seven, just a hair under, and maybe a size six. I’m not bone thin like an anorexic- that’s not good either-not that I could be, with my German and Polish ancestry. Small breasted, my greatest asset has always been my ass, and with my toned appearance, I still draw the eyes of plenty of men at work. I catch men staring at me half the time when I bring them their food, and while I would never cheat on Jeff, it does make me smile. Especially when so many of the men I catch looking are much younger than me- the last guy who openly hit on me was barely twenty seven, and as I pocketed the ten dollar tip he left me for coffee and pie, I kindly informed him that I was old enough to be his mother!
“You are a MILF,” he said, his green eyes taking me in from head to toe, “So I don’t care!”
That had made me blush- it was one thing to discretely flirt with a waitress, it was another to be so brazen- so I quickly turned away, departing behind the safety of the black kitchen door.
Even though I did put a wiggle in my ass when I did so!
So why have I become so active in masturbating, if my sex life is not bad?
The first reason is that I need sex more than Jeff is willing to provide. He has always had some complex about having sex when the kids are awake. This wasn’t a problem when the were all little, but now that they are all hovering around adulthood, I couldn’t exactly make them go to sleep so I could fuck their father!
The second reason is that while I don’t need it every day, when I need it now, I really need it. This seems to have started about five years ago, the strong desire to get off as soon as I feel the urge hitting me, and it only seems to grow more intense as I get older. My mother had warned me about this, in her non-direct way- she hadn’t cheated on my father, or so she said, but when she was nearing fifty she had needed sex so much that she had very nearly allowed the next door neighbors son to fuck her
Masturbation is not as good as the real thing- even if Jeff never always finished me off- but it was a far safer substitute than finding someone else to fuck. I don’t judge other people for what they do- that is their business- but I could never be the one to violate our marriage simply because my husband wasn’t able to fully fulfill my needs.
Looking out the window again, I saw that all four of them were busy- the younger brothers were picking up trash, Charles was picking up rocks, and Jeff was busy trying to get the lawn mower to work. Just as he refused to throw out his grandfather’s overalls, he refused to consider that a relic from the seventies was still capable of cutting grass.
Oh well- that’s Jeff for you.
They were going to be busy for a few more hours- so as I set my coffee cup down on the formica counter, I decided to make good use of the time I had alone while it lasted.
Walking up our creaking stairs- Jeff did most repairs right, but the third step always seemed to groan when I stepped on it, no matter how many times I tried to fix it- I immediately made my way to our bedroom.
Masturbation to me had become a ritual, a private event that followed a set path, and the first part to this event was getting ready. Closing the door behind me, I took one last look out of our single window- they were indeed engaged in their chores, so I was free to do what I normally did when I had my alone time.
I have always been a woman that enjoys wearing lingerie, for the simple feeling I have when I am wearing it.
Wearing lingerie for a man is a way that women turn men on- I do the same for my husband, and he knows that when I take off my clothes and join him in bed in something lacy that I have sex on my mind. I can’t speak for all women, but the very process of choosing an outfit and placing it onto my body seems to get me ready more than drinking or even a romantic movie can do.
Even when I am about to get myself off- I love to feel sexy, and nothing is sexier than lingerie against my skin!
Taking off my plain white sweatshirt- it was the only sweatshirt I had ever seen that was not adorned with some college logo or sports team, or something else- I placed it on top of my dresser. Sharing in a marriage is great, but just as I require my own place to put my clothes, I like to have this one activity to myself and only myself.
Maybe that is why it has turned into such a ritual for me- because it is the one real secret I have?
Secrets do exist in relationships, no matter what people may say- my mother had never told my father that she nearly fucked the boy next door (which is a big secret), just as my father never made mention of the fact that he had always flirted heavily with the clerk at the old Big Bear supermarket. I don’t think he ever pursued it, no more than she had pursued her almost liaison with Freddy McIntosh, but the secret was still there. They were still married, into their eighties now, and I doubted either felt the need to enlighten the other about these past mental desires- Freddy McIntosh had moved to New York and was now gay, from what I heard, and the old clerk from the store was either dead or in her eighties herself.
What secrets do we have between us?
Jeff knew everything that there was almost to know about me after a quarter century- he knew that I never liked his mother, that his father had made a drunken pass at me once, and that I shoplifted but was never caught as a teenager. I felt that I knew most of what there was to know about my husband as well- he secretly voted Republican most of the time (even though both of our families were staunch supporters of the opposite party), and when he was in high school, he had been into pot for nearly three years. These were big secrets, at least by our own standards.
Is masturbating really that big a secret?
I blushed at remembering my lingering Catholic school mindset- masturbation was something that girls did not do, let alone talk about, except for dirty girls. Good Catholic girls didn’t use protection or have abortions, they instead let their husbands get them pregnant over and over again in fulfillment of the command to multiply. Even good Catholics now rarely had families our size, let alone larger, so God must have made the rhythm method they told us about work after centuries of trial and error.
I had never caught Jeff pleasuring himself, now that I thought about it, and I wasn’t sure if I would like it if he did. It was wrong to expect someone else to do something- or refrain from doing something- that you yourself enjoyed, so I don’t think it was the act of masturbating that would bother me. No, what would bother me is that he was bashful about having sex when the kids were awake, but that he was finding the time to get his jollies off anyway.
What is worse- hearing your parents fucking, or walking in on your dad stroking his cock?
I slid out of my matching sweatpants- it was warmer today than the weather channel had suggested, which was not a surprise. The lake effect always altered the pre-destined degrees and dew points, and today was going to be much warmer than an average April day. Sometimes it snowed this late in the year, and sometimes it felt as hot as the honeymoon days we had spent in Gulfshores, Alabama.
Jeff and myself were similar in many ways in our background- we both were raised in this town, we called our soda pop and we drove American vehicles- but in some ways, we were different. I had always thought that being raised as an observant Catholic was strict enough, until I had met Jeff’s parents and attended their Baptist church. They made no secret of the fact that they did not like the inter-religious marriage, in addition to disliking everything from dancing to President Clinton. We at least as Catholics were able to earn penance for our sins, but Baptists could look forward to hellfire (at least according to them) if they failed to confess even one slight against the moral code.
Our family had solved the dispute that was older than this country by simply being neither- if pressed, I would still say I was Catholic, and Jeff would probably claim that he was a Baptist. In reality, while we still held to the key ethics that were common to both sects- such as treating people decently- we rejected the less practical aspects of both faiths. The idea that getting oneself off was evil was as crazy as believing that the earth was flat, something that the Pope claimed to be true long after the priests were busy “converting” the Indians of this continent.
If Jeff did jack off, then he was hiding it just as I was- and he must be very good at hiding it. I had never found a porn stash of his, and he left his computer open most of the time, so I doubted that he was simply looking at the modern equivalent of girly magazines. If he was scared to be overheard having sex, then he would be simply terrified of being caught stroking one out- and his computer was in our small family room.
I laughed at the idea- when I was at home still, I always heard my parents going at it. They may not have produced ten children as the church asked for back then, but that wasn’t for lack of trying. My mother might have toyed with the idea of straying, and my father might have flirted with a clerk, but they still had sex together. When they would be doing it, I had usually simply went to the living room and watched television, trying to ignore the idea of what they were doing. Now as an adult, I pictured them still doing it, old saggy bodies pressing against each other, and it made me smile.
Nothing wrong with having enjoyable sex, even if it is with oneself.
What were the words of that old actor- sex was like poker, if you don’t have a good partner, then you have to have a good hand!
Even if Jeff was more conservative than me in these matters, at least he had agreed that scaring our children into being Victorians was stupid. Jeff had explained the mechanics and the process as dryly as a health teacher when they were old enough to start asking questions. I had no idea to truly know their thoughts on these matters, but I did know that I was not yet a grandmother. I also knew that Charles was the one most likely to break this perfect record of producing no out of wedlock children in our families- if I was a moderate, and his father was a conservative, than my oldest son was the sexual equivalent of a flaming socialist!
Charles had no problem in using the family computer to relieve his own stress, and he had started this habit a couple of years ago. One night, I had very nearly walked in on him as he quickly tried to close the browser window, and his hand moved from his lap just as fast- a few seconds later, and I would have seen exactly how liberal my son was!
I knew that nearly being caught had not stopped him- he still crept around downstairs, usually at about three in the morning- but he had not made his personal time known to anyone in the family. As long as he did not get caught by his brothers or his sister, or his father, than I was not going to confront him about it. Masturbation is better than impregnating a teenage girl, and being stuck with child when you yourself are only legally an adult.
Besides, it isn’t like he is wasting anything that should be going to me- and I have the same secret habit.
I was standing now in front of my dresser, thinking about my son’s masturbatory habits being similar to my own- how had I gotten onto this subject?
That was irregardless- the boys might all be busy in the yard, but I knew that I only had so much time. I wanted to enjoy my time, so I selected a pleasing set of my favorite lingerie.
I put on my favorite outfit.
Made of black lace, with white padding, this particular set managed to accentuate my small breasts, pushing them upwards. As I felt the familiar sensation of the lace against my skin, a slight chill went through my body- the very contact with the fabric turned me on, my subconcious mind knowing that I was soon going to be getting off. I stepped into the bottom portion of the set- matching panties that clung to my hips and my pussy- and as I placed the stockings on my legs, I thought about exactly what I was going to be getting off to today.
All adults have different things that turn them on. Some people like to think about what it would be like to experience sex with another woman- something that I have never done myself. Others like to picture themselves in the middle of an orgy, with hands and mouths all over their bodies, and then of course there are those whom even in the depths of their own thoughts concentrate on the image of their spouse or partner.
Before I was married, like most people, I had dated a variety of men. Not all of them looked the same, but all of them were similar to my husband in one respect or another. My high school boyfriend had been an athlete, even though I had no interest in the school’s accomplishments in sports, but he was a black haired man as my husband is. The next man I had dated after that was red haired, but like Jeff, he was relatively conservative in his personal beliefs. I had almost married him, until he decided one day that he was no longer going to be having sex with me because he was “getting close to God.”
I was never a very slutty girl, or young woman- I did not give it up on the first date, and I had never cheated on any of the men whom I had been involved in relationships with. I was not a prude either- once I discovered how wonderful sex is, and once I felt comfortable with a man, then I expected him to be ready to satisfy (or at least attempt to satisfy me) in the bedroom. Men vary in this ability of course, just as women do, so when a man was not able to keep up with me, I took matters into my own hands. It was a shame that Clyde had turned all churchy on me- he was a very good lover, and he was very well proportioned, even more so than my husband was.
Size isn’t everything when it comes to sex, though a man has to be at least working with something that was average or better. Although I did not always get off from being fucked, the best orgasms always were those which came when I had a hard dick buried inside of me. The largest I had been with- Clyde- was a little bit under eight inches in length, and he was very thick. Just thinking about it now, after these decades, made me lick my lips- yes, he had almost always gotten me off when he had fucked me.
I had never done anything particularly crazy when it came to sex. No threesomes with another woman or another man, even though by the time I was in high school this idea was well established by porn, and I had never dated or had sex with someone outside of my race. I am not prejudiced- I see nothing wrong with people dating whom they want to date- but it wasn’t the thing that got me going in my mind.
I will confess, when I had started masturbating regularly again, at first, I had mostly thought about Clyde or about Jeff. Maybe thinking about an ex and their abilities in bed is something like cheating in a way- I would never tell Jeff that Clyde had been the one whom had really matched me in bed- but it is what it is.
Now, though, I had found that when I was working on myself, I generally liked to think about some of the things that I had missed out on- and mostly, about something that I had never pursued, fucking a much younger man. It wasn’t just that Clyde was well hung, and could use his tongue on me as well as he could use his cock on me. It was that the Clyde I pictured in my mind was a man whom was barely nineteen, whom had the build of a runner and the endurance of a marathoner.
Some women like bulky men, but I had always preferred my men to be the fit and slim type. Jeff had gained some weight over the years, but he was still far from the average fifty year old man- he had a very slight softness to his belly, not the expanse of flesh that came from drinking too much beer. He was an older version of himself, and if he ever could manage to join the gym, chances were that he would regain his former build in a few months.
Still, though, he isn’t twenty anymore.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I was proud of the way I filled out my lingerie- and then I went to the one place in the house where I was least likely to be disturbed, our attic. As I climbed the drop down stairs, I thought about what it would be like to be able to get into a time machine and go back.
Just long enough to fuck my husband, or Clyde, back when they were young.
Three years ago, Jeff had told me that he wanted to convert our attic into a third bedroom. In preparation for this fact, he had moved all of our junk from the attic. At first, it had relocated to the garage, and then to a storage shed. Paying an extra fifty bucks a month to keep everything from unneeded children’s clothes, to old family photo albums and even parts for a Yugo might seem wasteful- but Jeff was a pack rat, and it was easier to simply spend the money rather than fight with him over it.
Jeff had done a really good job in beginning the process. The old floor, made of plain boards, had been sanded down and carpeted with remnants, and he had painted the walls a shade of light blue that seemed to make the small space more open. Jeff had even made use of the fact that the beams of the house had cut the potential floor space- on the back wall, he had constructed a natural closet- made out of boards, on hinges that were bolted into the old plaster, it may have only cost him a few dollars but it turned the attic into a bedroom.
He had went so far to move his old futon up here- the piece of furniture had been bought from KMart and showed it’s age, though the mattress was still comfortable. Except for the fact that the only entry into this room was through a pull down set of steps, and that the beams of the house made it so that you had to duck your head when walking around, this would be the perfect room if one of our children did stay at home for whatever reason. Charles, being the oldest, had started implying that he wanted to move up here, and away from his brothers, but so far I had told him one excuse after another as to why he could not.
I of course used the excuse that it was not safe to only be able to access this part of the house via pull down stairs- what if a fire happened, or something else that required being able to get out of here?
Of course, this was one of the big draws for Charles- if Jeff or myself wanted to come up here and see what he was doing, then Charles would have a minute or two to hide anything he didn’t want us to see. I know that my oldest son did steal beer from the fridge, and he had once replaced the contents of a vodka bottle with tap water, but for the most part he was basically a good kid. He never took more than one at a time, so it wasn’t like he was turning into a drunk.
Who knew what he would be doing when he had a place to withdraw to without the constant presence of his siblings or his parents?
It wasn’t like he could sneak a girl up here, but he could easily use this as a place to get drunk and pass out.
Or to whack off to his heart’s content.
This was indeed a perfect place to masturbate in privacy- this was why I came up here, mostly, and that was the main reason that I had kept from giving up the attic to my son. I knew that he was jacking off in the living room, and it would be very embarrassing for him if he was caught, but that was the risk he took. Jeff had sensed that I was reluctant to hand over the attic to Charles- he simply thought that was because I was being a mother hen.
He had no idea what the real reason was.
I distracted my husband by telling him that working on the attic any further was pointless, when so much else had to be done around the house. The current project I was pushing was installing fencing around our yard. Fencing is expensive, even if you do it yourself, and it is difficult, but maybe after he spent another day picking up other peoples garbage, he would see the value in what I was seeing. Plus, digging post holes would be a good work out for him.
As I entered the attic, I turned the old Cheval floor mirror to face the bed. It was something that had always been in this house- the previous owners had lived here for forty years, and they said that it had been in the attic when they had moved in. After Jeff had relocated his junk, I had insisted that he leave this mirror right where it had always been. Jeff claimed that it might be an antique, and we should consider selling it or at least finding out what it was worth- maybe selling it would purchase a third vehicle?- but the mirror just belonged here.
The strange thing is that I am the only one whom ever comes up here, and even when I forget to put it back against the wall, it seems to always end up against the wall.
I shuddered as I slid it across the floor two feet, so that it was facing me- I was being ridiculous, superstitious.
Mirrors don’t just move themselves.
Nobody ever came up here- Charles may have wanted this room to himself, but without his video games here, there was little reason for him to make the trip up the drop down stairs. His brothers likewise didn’t see any reason to come up here, Jeff was always busy, and my daughter thought that a ghost lived upstairs. She liked to pretend now that she didn’t believe in such childish foolishness- she was almost an adult, and adults aren’t supposed to think of such things- but her brothers all knew that she still jumped when a board creaked. The only person whom came upstairs was me.
I sat down on the old futon- it still stunk like spilled beer and potato chips, greasy orange finger marks permanently staining the white mattress- and I leaned back. I really should wash the sheet- my own sweat had seeped into it, adding to the aroma that filled the room- but the lingering smell of sex and youth was just another turn on for me. Closing my eyes, I could picture a younger version of my husband, sitting here with his shirt off and playing Mario Brothers Three, a beer in his hand and sweat dripping down his smooth young chest.
As I closed my eyes, my hands began to roam. My left hand slid underneath the heft of my breast, feeling the weight, as my right hand crept lower.
Touching both of my erogenous areas at the same time quickly had the desired affect- as one set of my fingers pinched my nipple through the fabric, the other set went underneath the lacy bottoms I wore. The sensation of soft lace, soft skin, and the warmth of my pussy combined with the smell of beer and man sweat and my own earlier masturbatory sessions to turn me on.
There was no rush, no heated removal of clothing that came with having sex with a man- men, when they do get a hard on, want to get into pussy as fast as possible. Both older men and younger men have this problem. The younger men are probably afraid of losing their self control, and shooting off their own load inside of their pants. Jeff was becoming an older man, and he acted like if he waited too long, he would simply lose his erection.
Sometimes I wanted to be taken hard and fast- sometimes my own ardor just rose within in me to the point that I wanted my husband to bend me over the nearest piece of furniture and shove his cock into me- but my personal ritual was different. Masturbation is indeed the most selfish act- as the Church had taught me growing up- but selfishness is not necessarily a bad thing. At work, I took care of others needs, and at home I did the same thing. If I wanted to have a few moments to take care of my own needs, so what then?
I opened my eyes, looking at myself in the mirror- here I was, laying on a ratty old futon, my fingers playing with myself. As I tugged down my top, I stared at my hard nipples- they were poking forward, jutting upwards like tiny little cocks, erect from my own touch.
They may be small, but they are pretty.
The seven men I had been with sexually had never complained about my breasts, which are 32B in size- Jeff said I had the perfect sized tits. Just large enough to fill his mouth, but not too large, where his lips could not fully embrace their firmness. I toyed with them- yes, I am forty seven, but my breasts were still as firm nearly as they always have been, even if I saw in the mirror that I do have the inevitable marks of aging on my body.
What would it be like to suck on another woman’s breasts?
I had no experience with other women, and I do not really have a desire to try- I am happy making love to men, and the idea of licking another woman’s pussy was not really a turn on for me. But I did find myself idly wondering what it would be like to play with a different set of breasts.
Would larger breasts be as sensitive as my own?
Would they respond the same way I did, their nipples rising at the slightest touch- sometimes even at the sensation of a breeze blowing against them?
I was now actively stroking them, and underneath my panties, the fingers of my right hand had inserted their thin tips in between the shaved lips of my pussy. I was wet, and could easily slide three of them inside of me, but I was in no rush to get off.
Like waiting for ketchup to descend from the bottle onto the hamburger, I burned at the anticipation. I was indeed turned on- if my husband, or another man, had happened through some magic to appear before me, then I would jump his bones.
Another man- a younger man, with a smooth chest, and a large cock that was ready to fill me up from the inside out!
Closing my eyes again, my mind created what this imaginary lover would look like.
He would be tall- at least six feet in height- and he would have wide shoulders and a narrow waist. Hair that was dark, black in color, with pale skin, and a large cock that was both long and thick.
Yes, a cock that would stretch me wide as it pierced me, as it made it’s way in and out of my pussy.
I was now furtively masturbating- I was gripping my breast forcefully, so much so that I knew my fingers were going to leave marks on me. If Jeff fucked me later- and I was hoping that he would, as today was running so smoothly- he may notice that I had these marks. He would ask what happened- I would tell him that I had clumsily knocked into something, maybe the cabinet downstairs.
In between my legs, I was wet- I raised my legs, and I pulled my panties down, showing off my naked flesh to my own eyes.
My sister had always said that I was self obsessed, that I got turned on more by looking at myself than anyone else, that I was almost a narcissist.
I don’t think that I am some drop dead gorgeous woman, or even some porn actress, but I am proud of the way I look. Smiling, I stared at my pussy in the reflection- my fingers were now inside of me, all three of them, prodding between my labia and teasing my little button of a clit. I am not a narcissist, but I do know that I am a good looking woman, and there is nothing wrong with that.
I closed my eyes again- I may be in this room alone, physically, but mentally, I was trying to fully see the man that I was making love to.
He was a good looking man- he did not have any scars or marks on his young body. A runner or a swimmer, maybe a baseball player, someone that had endurance. A barely legal boy that was in college, or even a senior in high school, this fantasy man was before me.
He was sucking my breasts, telling me that he loved them- they fit his mouth perfectly, not an ounce too much of flesh, not too little to satiate his instinctual need to suckle. Yes, I had idly thought about sucking breasts because it was a deep natural desire, one that a man could easily fulfill, but a woman had to cross the line to do.
“Yes, suck my breasts,” I moaned, aloud, the words echoing in the space of the attic- this was not a concern, as I was the only one whom could hear them?
The mystery man in my mind looked me in the eyes- they were blue, a light blue shade that was almost grayish green- and he smiled. He had perfect teeth, white in their brilliance, and without being told, he made his way down my toned abdomen, as his tongue began to lick my pussy.
“Suck that pussy,” I moaned- it was my fingers doing the work, my own hand bringing me pleasure, but I was so intent on picturing him, that it may as well have been the mouth of a young man!
A young man- like that customer- whom wanted nothing more than be told to eat some hot MILF pussy!
That’s whom I was seeing- not a younger Jeff, or Clyde- but that young man whom straight up told me what he thought about my forty seven year old body. He had wanted to fuck me, and it had made me blush- blush because I knew that he was the type of man that I fantasized about. I could never do this in real life, but in my mind, I was doing him!
“Fuck, you are good!” I said, louder, as my excitement now was bringing me to the brink.
He now stood before me, and he showed me his cock- it was nine inches long, with an angry head that was purplish red. He showed me his cock, letting me know that it was going to be inside of me, whether I had a husband or not. He was going to fuck me with his young dick, he was going to pound me raw, with no protection or anything else to get in the way!
I came then on my fingers, my hip pushing upwards and forwards, as the sweet feeling of release enveloped my body, and the picture of this man disappeared from my view. Opening my eyes, I saw the surprise of my life- I was truly not alone in this attic!
In the mirror, I saw the unmistakable presence of my son, Charles.
He stood there, a blank look on his face- he seemed to be as startled as I was, unsure of what had just happened. He was dressed in a pair of red and white shorts, a stained white wife beater, and his black hair stuck to his head from the sweat that was emanating from his body. I saw that his hand was inside of those loose athletic shorts that he wore, and what looked like a very large and very erect penis jutted forward from his body.
How long had he-
“I saw what you were doing,” Charles said, taking charge- he was the oldest, and he was used to bossing his younger siblings around, as he broke from his own spell, “So, how long have you been jilling off like this, mom?”
It is inevitable that when people masturbate, and they live in a house with other people, that one or the other will at some point walk across their activity. I had almost caught him jacking off before, in the living room, and I had dismissed it. Now, though, I was the one whom was caught- not by my husband, which would have been useful, or by my daughter (which would have been bad, but understandable in the way that females naturally understand each other)- but by my son!
“Charles, I- wait, I don’t think,” I stammered.
Yes, I am in the right- I am an adult, and it is my business if I get myself off. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, especially you!
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