The Luckiest Guy in the World Ch. 01

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Amateur

This story represents my best effort at coming up with a story about sex between a mother and her son that could really happen – and it happens to a mother who is probably least vulnerable to incest. It takes a while to get there, though, so fair warning: he doesn’t even get to first base in the first chapter. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t some hot sex. Enjoy, and I look forward to your feedback, to guide my future chapters.

Chapter 1: What a Life!

The 60 inch LED television is mounted on the wall of my home office. Its image is incredibly crisp and bright. Connected to a fantastic surround-sound system involving twenty different speakers, the sounds filled my ears. It was like being right there, all over again, and even though I’d watched this particular episode, oh maybe a gazillion times, it always felt fresh and exciting.

The point of view is from a corner camera, pointed directly at the couch in the center of my mother’s in-house office. There is an overhead light. Every detail stands out clearly. My mother is naked and on her on her hands and knees. Her breasts, so round and heavy, hang down and shake. Her nipples are swollen and hard. Her eyes are closed. Her back is arched, her ass pressing up and back…towards her son, who just the day before celebrated his 22nd birthday and is about to get the best present ever.

And, yes, at exactly this moment, the tip of my rock-hard cock touches Mom’s shiny, well-lubricated pucker. Her entire body shudders. She looks back over her shoulder, catching me with those big grey-blue eyes, and apologizes to me: “Oh god, Jason, puuuush, I’m so sorry, but please don’t stop, push, slow, slow, slow, push, aggghhhh,” as the swollen tip stretches her sphincter, “oh god, my poor son, my poor son, how can I do this to you, but I am sure, so sure, this will finally be the end of it-eeeeeeh,” her voice rises to a shriek as the head of my penis achieves its goal in life and moves past my mother’s sphincter with a silent pop.

I hit the pause button and switch the point of view. My mother’s head is now hanging down, her back hunched up, her arms rigidly supporting her. Young Me is grinning widely. And I know oh so very well what comes next: my buttocks clench, I place my hands on Mom’s hips in a firm, possessive grip, and then I push my swollen, engorged, throbbing erection all the way in. One fell swoop, without pause, till my cock has disappeared into her and the two cheeks of her ass are pressed up against me.

But I pause just before the Mighty Plunge, because, well, it’s part of my ritual.

I get up from my desk, pour myself two fingers from my second-to-last Macallan ’26. I hoist the glass and declare: “To the luckiest guy in the world!”

That’s me.

Then and only then do I press the play button. My cock, hard as steel, tempered over the ten-plus years I spent fantasizing and planning for this action, slides deep into my mother’s ass. There is no resistance, but she is tight, clutched around my thick pole. And then, captured on camera, that most rapturous moment of all: her whole, tensed-up body shudders, once, twice, and then to my great surprise she relaxes, all muscles going slack, her ass and legs trembling with the effort of staying upright, her body suddenly accepting my hard-on as if she, too, had been waiting years for this ravaging. She pushes her ass back up at me. I press into her. And so begins the dance, a beautiful rhythm with lyrics that mostly involve my mother moaning, that all too soon culminates in waves of orgasm washing over me, and burning hot sperm filling her ass to overflowing.

Yes, that’s me: the luckiest guy in the world.

Consider, after all: at the age of nineteen, I wrote a fantastically popular iPhone app and by the time I was 20, I had more money than I knew what do with. So I did lots of stuff with it, really enjoyed myself. You name it, I did it. You fantasize about it, I probably did it. Racing ahead twenty years to the present, I am now working on a new killer app utilizing the latest virtual reality glasses and hyper-local surround sound. My wife of ten years is the creative director for the game. She is smoking hot and she loves sex. With me. Do I have anything to complain about? No way!

I have got to be just about the luckiest guy in the world. I possess everything I ever wanted to possess, I did everything I ever wanted to do (though I am sure to think of more). Yet, having said that, sometimes I feel the need to remind myself of just how much I have achieved, by verifying that even my darkest, my most insanely private fantasies have been realized in this life of mine.

And when that need arises, I open up my secure drive. It’s not connected to any external network, and is accessible only with the provision of a 1024 bit passkey. No one but me can see this stuff. Everyone bahis firmaları needs a little privacy, right? I open up that drive and peruse my list of Greatest Hits from the now classic and never released to video, 247-episode series titled “The Seduction of Mom.”

So be honest, dear reader: if you owned a video that showed your rock-hard 22-year old cock sinking into your Mom’s beautiful ass, with a soundtrack of her moaning and grunting and apologizing over and over again for “making” you do it, you would watch it, right? Over and over again, every chance you got – right?

Well, I have my choice of hundreds of recordings made in just about every room of the house in which I grew up. The house in which mom had her office, where she saw her patients and stored her files, the house I grew up in, where I discovered just how totally depraved I could be. The house I lived in till I was thirty, met Laura, and moved on with my life. The house that bore silent witness to my brilliantly conceived, slow and steady seduction of my very own lush, sexy, and very loving mother.

And I recorded, oh, just about every second of the process.

It’s ironic, or something. As human beings go, I am a nasty piece of work, or can be. Yet I seem to have been rewarded handsomely for every nasty act I committed in my life. The world can be strange sometimes.

For example: at the age of 16, I hacked into my mother’s confidential files for all her patients. Mom was a sexual dysfunction therapist (she only treated adults), and a widely renowned one at that. I was a nerdy, very smart kid. Very much the sort of kid, in fact, who loved to stay up late, checking out the latest gadgets and seeing where they could take him. So how could anyone have expected me to resist the temptation to peek into Mom’s office computer? Hell, I had put the whole network together for her. I had all the sys admin passwords. I could see and do anything. Not that Mom had any idea. She was more or less phobic about computers, and relied on me completely.

So her files were open books to my tip-tapping fingers, and oh those files made fascinating reading for the penis-with-legs-and-oh-yes-a-brain that was my 16-year old self. Fortunately, I was a very fast reader.

But that’s not all, no sir. A year later (at which point I had become a 17 year old bored with school and getting really excited, instead, about something I’d been hearing about called the “world wide web”), I installed miniature, hi-resolution, movement-activated cameras, a half dozen of them, in my Mom’s office, when I did some remodeling for her (I was and am an excellent handyman, too). And for good measure, I did the same thing all over the house: kitchen, bedroom (hers, not mine), dining room, laundry room.

I hooked them all up to a big array of hard drives and turned them on. Left them on all the time. Including in her office.

So, for example, I recorded all of her sessions with patients. Of course, most of what I recorded was boring (like cooking or cleaning dishes in the kitchen) or revolting (some patients were ugly and gross and a big turn-off). But there were also some beauties, some incredibly sexy young women. They definitely helped me with my boredom problem, talking about the terrible urges they had about their daddies or brothers or, for that matter, their sisters, a flush rising up their throats and then suffusing across their faces. Heavenly!

But without a doubt, the stars of the recordings were, for me, the young men, usually no more than a few years older than me, who were obsessed with fucking their very own mothers. In many cases, they’d actually tried. Just two had achieved their goals, and then later got caught. One of them was fucking his mother in every possible way for a year before the dad caught on and shipped him off to a military academy. Which referred him to my mother. The other one was still fucking his mother – he was going to therapy because he had turned his mother into his slave, and was feeling kind of guilty about it. That was Saul – hands down, my favorite amongst all her clients.

So there I was, seventeen, smart as hell, but way more horny than I was smart. I sucked these stories directly into my newly sexed psyche. And surely you can guess what happened next. I became completely obsessed with fucking my mother.

That was a perfectly rationale thing to be obsessed about, all things considered.

My mother: Dr. Susan Brendil, celebrated therapist and mom extraordinaire. She really was and is a great mom. My dad died when I was four; I have a few, fragmentary memories of him. Mom raised me as she finished grad school and started her career. We have always been very close (and remain so to this day. We never mention what happened between us so long ago) and she always looked out for me. I’ve done the same for her.

So a great kaçak iddaa Mom, but also a “closet beauty”. I say that, because when my mother saw patients she always wore very conservative and loose-fitting outfits, all very plain in design and nothing too colorful.

She needed to dress like this because her body was a total knockout. She loved the beach and so I had seen her in a bikini since I was a little boy, but I never realized how amazing her body was until puberty had its way with me. When I was twelve, we went for a week-long holiday in the Outer Banks, North Carolina. The first morning we went to the beach, when she pulled her sundress off, I suddenly found it hard to breathe. She faced me as the dress came up over her head, her arms lifted, raising her breasts. Her body blocked the sun, but that just caused an incredible halo effect. She was, literally, surrounded by a blaze of light. Here’s what I saw:

Heavy, round, firm breasts pressing at the fabric in her bikini.

Smooth, but not entirely flat, stomach.

Belly button with just a hint of hairs around it.

Hips that blossomed out from her hips in a delicious curve.

Strong thighs and calves, showing lots of muscle from all her time on the tennis court.

Then the sundress came off and dropped onto her towel. She looked down at me staring up at her and laughed: “Close your mouth, Jason, or some really gigantic bug will fly in. You look like you’ve never seen me before.”

Well, really, I hadn’t. I stood up, gave her a big hug, and without even thinking, said: “Mom, you’re so beautiful!”

“Silly boy,” she replied, tousling my hair. “Let’s go swimming.” She turned and strode down to the water. I watched her ass, barely contained in her bikini bottom, moving back and forth. I felt my head start to move from side to side, matching her rhythm. I looked down and saw an erection pushing out the front of my bathing suit. I looked around quickly to see if anyone noticed. No. Good. I ran past my mom and dove into the water.

It was the best vacation of my life (well, at least until Laura and I spent our honeymoon in Paris, spending every minute exploring each other’s bodies in orgasmic detail). In addition to the usual fun (swimming, snorkeling, hiking, eating great food, etc.), I became a devoted Mom Watcher. I soon learned that if I wore dark sunglasses and worked on developing my peripheral vision, I could stare and stare at my mother’s body and she would never know it.

Where was I? It’s so easy to get lost in memories of my beautiful mother.

Right. She wore conservative outfits to hide her sexy body. After all, she often counseled young men with sexual problems. If she wore clothing that came even close to form fitting, they would never hear anything she had to say. They would just sit there and stare at her breasts. And dream my dreams. Which they probably did, anyway.

Ha, well, the joke was on them, all those pathetic mother fuckers and mother fucker wannabees, forced to spill their guts out to some (pretty) stranger. She was my mother and I knew just what she had to offer.

And by the time I was fifteen, I knew exactly what I wanted: I wanted her nipples swelling in my mouth, I wanted her legs spread wide. I wanted to bring her to orgasm with my tongue and I wanted her to swallow my cum. I wanted to watch and feel my erection to slide into her, into her mouth, her vagina and her ass (oh, those bad boy patients of hers had loaded me up with all sorts of tantalizing ideas!).

But I was smart enough to know that as hard as it might be for any son to convince his mother to have sex with him, for me it would be a hundred times harder. She counseled incestuous sons and mothers, daughters and fathers, she helped them get back to a “healthy” relationship that did not involve sex.

So for her to do such a thing, to cross that line herself, well, I figured that it would seem unthinkable, entirely beyond the pale. I knew that I would have to be very careful, very creative, very patient.

And patient I was. I never gave up on the idea of getting my mom to give me a blow job (and so much more), and I certainly never stopped using those ideas to fill my hand with pools of burning hot cum. But I got on with my life. I discovered computers, I discovered programming, I discovered that I could create worlds governed by my own rules, populated with my own sorts of creatures, and I started building games.

And then I came up with BlinkShrink, a game that tested your ability to read facial expressions and predict a person’s behavior and decisions – in the blink of an eye. If you suffered from Asperger’s Syndrome or worse (full blown autism,) the game was a total waste of time. For other people (fortunately still well in the majority), it was an irresistible challenge, and millions of dollars rolled into kaçak bahis my bank account. Tens of millions.

I was filthy rich at the age of 19. I saw no reason to go to college, no reason to leave my mom by herself. Sure, I dated. Hell, I had gorgeous girlfriends, and I fucked them to their deep satisfaction. Mine, too. I wasn’t stupid. Obviously, if I showed no interest in any other female than my mother, she would get very suspicious: was I gay? Or worse, did I lust after my very own mom?

No way was I going to give her any clues. So I brought home really cute girls to meet Mom. And I made sure they didn’t look anything like her.

So there I was: a millionaire at 19, and all I wanted to do was make love to my mom. And then one day I “woke up” and decided it was time to move beyond fantasy and wishful thinking. It was time to get serious. And that meant doing research.

And research meant, well, looking to see what others had done in the past to achieve their personal goals of bedding their mother. I went online and found Literotica. I read story after story, and lots of them were really stimulating (it was probably a good thing to take a break from only fantasizing about my own mother). But, to be brutally honest, they generally did not offer very plausible scenarios. And they were certainly not likely to help me with a woman whose incest antenna would be as sensitive as my mom’s.

So I decided to do some “data mining” in another excellent repository on incest: my mom’s own files. I’d read them years ago (and watched the sessions, too), but that was in the burning fire of adolescence, cherry-picking the contents for the most juicy parts (it’s amazing how well you can train a brain to skim words and voices to pick out “mission-critical” keywords like ass, penis, erection, bent over, suck, etc.).

Now it was time to go back and put in some serious study time. I built a program to scan both written files and videos for sessions that had to do with mother-son incest. That saved me a lot of time. Then I concentrated on the initial phases of the “relationship” – what had the guys tried? What worked and what didn’t?

All sorts of things were tried, and they mostly didn’t work, including: neck rubs that gradually resulted in breast grabbing, asking their moms to pose for them for art classes (nude and otherwise), straight out guilt-tripping (“It’s all your fault that I can’t like girls my age.”), vacations in which there was just a single bed to share in the hotel, etc. Like I say, most of them didn’t work and the ones that did, clearly succeeded in spite of themselves (their moms were looking for an excuse to let their sons fuck them, which is fine for them, but didn’t do me any good).

Then there was a patient my mom referred to as “S” in her notes.

Ha. There’s some weak encryption. His name was Saul andhe reminded me of me. He was smart and careful and gradual. He found a path through the maze of his mom’s resistance, and he followed it step by step by step, never trying to push through an obstacle, always ready to back off if he suspected she suspected. I admired this fellow, this Saul. And, amazingly, so did my mom, from what I could glean from her notes (he was from before the time I installed the cameras). She wrote after one session: “S seems to understand his mom so deeply, he was able to identify one of her compulsions, and then use that compulsion, through tiny increments of pressure and affection, to move her closer and closer to the point when she would open herself (and quite literally her legs) to her son.”

Best of all, my Mom never “cured” Saul, she never convinced him that he was wrong, and (more to the point) she failed utterly to get his mom to close her legs. She really did consider herself to be his slave and seemed quite content with that situation.

Now, this was a fellow I could learn from. And what did I learn?

1. Never be in a hurry.

2. Always be ready with a “safe retreat” – a way to back off from an uncomfortable moment with a believable explanation.

3. Find a compulsion, a deeply-felt desire, and use it.

4. Never stop loving your mother, but never let that love get in the way of your objective: to express that love in the most taboo fashion.

All good advice, and I felt I was ready to proceed, except for number 3. What did my mother deeply desire? What seemed to compel her to act in a certain way? I cast my mind back over recent years, and the time I spent with my mom. And one moment shone clearly through: I was 18, graduated from high school. It seemed like I should go to college, it seemed as though I should move out. Of course, I didn’t want to – I had other plans – but I couldn’t tell my mom that.

We sat on the couch in the living room. It was summer, the windows were open, it was warm, but comfortable. Mom wore a tattered, old t-shirt, a favorite stay at home choice – and one of mine, too, because it was a bit of a tight fit. She was wearing a bra, which was a bummer, but the thing was I could see that bra, clear as day.

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