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Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Written in honour of a currently retired Lit author and virtual pen pal who wrote a lot for this category some years ago. I devote this sleep-deprived fever dream to you, dear author, who demanded that I keep his name out of my filthy goat mouth.
Disclaimer: Both characters are over the age of 18. Especially the mum. She is a lot over the age of 18. Hands up who didn’t see that curveball coming…
I WISH HE KNEW
1.
As far as I was concerned I was his biggest fan and had been for longer than he could have known. That might seem a strange thing for the fifty year old fan of an exciting new writer of erotica to be saying.
I didn’t randomly discover him on Literotica. With his true identity hidden, his user profile only hinting his age range and location, and nothing else other than hobbies and interests that could have belonged to most males his age, how could I have known?
He had written eight stories within the space of seven months, all back in 2020, and then three more stories published recently as it was clear he could not quit his favourite subject, even if he had gone AWOL trying his best to escape the temptation to delve deeper.
Well, that favourite subject was his and mine both…
Incest. Mother and son sex stories.
I just wanted to say hello.
Hello and thank you.
2.
I have been an avid reader of Literotica content for nigh on thirteen years. My favourite kinds of stories were pretty tame back in the beginning. I liked ‘Loving Wives,’ ‘Erotic Couplings,’ and the occasional ‘Group Sex’ story too if I was feeling particularly wild. My personal life didn’t mirror this at all.
For the longest time my wayward teenage son Dylan was my absolute priority, namely keeping him on the straight and narrow through high school, and then helping him claw back some semblance of an education by kicking his arse through the front doors of the local college.
As much as I continued to care of myself, my mind, my body, and my needs in life once my son had finally gone out into the world to make something of himself, the prospect of finally finding love didn’t only grow all the more unrealistic as men failed to win my affections.
I wasn’t used to having time alone, having privacy, having a whole home to myself. Quite frankly it didn’t take a transformation on my part to learn to like it either. I hadn’t really had a youth of my own. Being able to do as I pleased, finally having a peaceful corner that I could resort to in times of stress became the godsend I’d always needed.
So pretty much whenever I wasn’t rushing around like a blue-arse fly maintaining an income I could actually live off now that I didn’t have two mouths to feed,
Partially as a result of this I never felt the need for more than a faithful friend with benefits here and there. I still wanted to feel sexy, desirable, and just about sexually sated enough to keep a focus on enjoying the single life I’d grown so accustomed to.
If somebody particularly special had come along and shown interest, don’t get me wrong, I’d have been ready and willing to give them a good run for their money. It just never worked out that way, and I wasn’t worried about it.
I wonder if that contributed to how, as I edged toward my mid-forties, my favourited stories had taken on a more adventurous and provocative flavour. Maybe I’d just grown wild as no real-world prospect promised the kind of love life or sexual gratification I sought in my favourite stories.
When the same old vanilla themes were replaced by salacious first time lesbian fantasies, I didn’t have the guts to explore in real life that side of myself. Frankly the women offering me such a good time not only scared me, they came across like so many male blowhards who’d proven good for nothing but their own narcissistic vanity.
When those old vanilla themese were also replaced also by stories of men engaging in gay sex, there wasn’t a parallel I could draw. I don’t know why that turns me on, but sometimes it just twists my faucet setting to a warm steady dribble.
But when I found myself turned on by stories of mothers and sons mutually consenting to sex with each other, there was no going back. The reaction my body and soul gave to those sultry daydreams were like nothing else, ever.
And I was never finding excitement like that in the real world without willingly going down dark paths. I guess that just became an inevitability once I was so far down the rabbit hole…
3.
I şiran escort might not make the best life decisions by myself but I am not completely daft. I knew going in that there is the possibility of somebody knowing my name and then that there is a probability. Sod’s Law – no matter how low the chances, time narrows everything down into a deadly accurate and inescapable needle-point of consequence.
I created an email account almost immediately after Dylan found work and left him, just for the more private stuff, erotic content and dating profiles and the likes, stuff which would still never see the light of day long after.
My email username was the same as my Lit account name, for consistency’s sake. So when I decided to fill in the feedback form for ‘Ode2Lofn’ he would see that I was the same ‘SodsLaw’ who had commented on several of his works.
One evening I was done reading his last adventure. This one began with an argument between a mother and son after the funeral of the son and father, after the son grew paranoid about a man making inappropriate advances toward her, acting too close for comfort, and confronted him.
The bombshell came some weeks after his mother’s apology. The man was a friend of she and her late husband. Swingers. His parents were swingers…
With a hilariously absurd approach to suspension of disbelief – are these stories really any better when they’re “believable?” – the mother depressed by the end of her marriage and exciting sex life proposed that her son accompany her to one of her old haunts as her au pair. He would go down a storm with the women who attend those things. She’d know!
The son accepted, and they decided there was no need for ground rules other than to maintain for the sake of safety that the son was his mother’s FWB and not related. Some things just went without saying. On the night, the son met his mother’s swinger friend again, and they swapped, in the same room, sparking a lightning bolt of revelatory thoughts and feelings in both mother and son.
They continued to attend these swinger nights, which became more daring, putting them almost directly in each other’s firing line, until one night they dared to commit a brief but irreversible sex act to the excited approval of their swap partners.
In the heat of the moment the son’s swap partner goes down on his mother while he holds her thighs apart, and then compelled with little need for encouragement he tastes the juices straight from her lips in a feverish kiss.
The story ended with no actual sex between them, but with a dead certainty that all it would now take was the gentlest push for them to cross the line.
And how racily expressed it was that they both so wanted to!
4.
Hi from SodsLaw, I began;
Just finished reading ‘Swings
Thank you so much for your feedback. The overall response has been good so far but I am positively overwhelmed that a mother and fan of my stories was so deeply affected the way you described. It brings me great pleasure to bring my readers great pleasure, so I am all the more grateful that you reached out to say so.
To answer your key question, I am not sure where to begin. I got into reading incest stories on Lit over five years ago. When I was bored out of my mind in lockdown, 2020, I didn’t care as much for what other authors were writing, so I decided to try my hand at it.
Years of fantasising about my own mother, whom I love and respect more than she probably knows, having a fussy standard for MILF porn, and reading only the best stories here really seemed to work in my favour. I had all the time in the world to daydream.
I guess how I write my stories is that I try to feel and rationalise from every key character’s perspective, and to bear in mind the emotional connections that yearn for intimacy, as well as the ones created by it.
Just try to write something that isn’t being done, or something from a fresh perspective, and something that’s daring without being crass, and people are often grateful for the little changes.
Yours sincerely;
Ode2Lofn.
Emailed from Mackintosh.Dylan95…
“Oh…” I said aloud as it dawned on me all too quickly. My mind confirmed very loudly then, “that’s… my son’s account!”
7.
I am nothing within society if not tactful. My negotiation tactics were wasted on retail and every other job I could scrape up without a degree. Now I have almost no need şirinevler escort for them at all, but it was a skill that I’ve managed to use to my own advantage socially and being on the other end of the uniform nametag, so those tactics have since become a natural part of my personality.
I know, I sound like a barrel of laughs. But it’s increasingly handy in today’s political and social climate where the ability to keep a straight face is considered a dying art. So is the ability to recognise the best opportunity to pump people for essential information without them realising that you’re doing it.
At least I had the most important advantage of all sat right in my lap, and that was the advantage of being anonymous before my son. And yes there was no mistaking him. I doubted at first that this could be him, as he was much more articulate with his fingers than with his mouth. But the email address was unmistakeably his.
My heart was gunning in full-auto. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to scream. So I veered calmy to the middle of the road and chose to investigate this objectively and rationally.
Look at it from my perspective. I knew I should probably back out and not tempt any further revelations, as now there seemed a real reason to practice the utmost caution. And I didn’t want to deceive my son in any way.
I certainly didn’t seek to ridicule him. We were both here for essentially the same reasons after all. More reason to back out? I’m only human. I seek to understand that which scares me.
But I can’t lie, it wasn’t entirely that I was scared. Intimidated, yes. Intrigued, more so. Kind of excited, in all certainty.
Thinking about what I wanted to get out of replying to him while hiding who I really was, my fingers started to dance until what I saw on the page oozed with just the right amount of honey to entice the bear.
8.
Dear Ode2Lofn;
I find it quite courageous that you can admit that about yourself – fantasising about your mother.
Personally when I read the likes of your stories I’m never imagining me with my son. I’m imagining the characters you create and living vicariously through their taboo experiences. It’s when I can’t find a good story to help me to sleep, or sometimes to get out of bed in the morning, that my imagination turns to my son and I.
I can’t believe some of the things I think about saying to him to convey that I share some of his interests. I hope you don’t mind me sharing this.
But it’s quite sweet of you really, considering that you say you probably love and respect her more than she realises. Take it from a mother, we do know these things, but we like to be assured from time to time.
You’re clearly an emotionally intellectual young man. It shows in the way your fictional selves love their mothers, and otherwise in the dramas you create. My son is similar, and yet it’s me that’s scared of how much I could love him if things were as easy as they are in fiction.
I hope you write more soon. Meanwhile feel welcome to write me back and I will respond as soon as I am free.
Yours;
SodsLaw
9.
I thought I would wait another day, but with the fuse of intrigue lit and considering the emotional stakes here, I checked my emails every twenty minutes until the end of that night. At half past eleven I received another email from him. I took him to bed with me since that’s where I was headed anyway.
I needed juicy details. Details about me. Details about thoughts he had about me.
“Thank you,” Dylan wrote back. “Now I am fascinated about the fantasies you have and the things you think about saying. Personally it all started for me when I developed a thing for maturer women in my late teens. I don’t know if it was because of my mum, but finding one of her porn videos in her search history had an effect.”
The little shit!
He went on: “She has a thing for younger lads and girl on girl and that was what got me into those things. Emotionally though, in terms of my stories, I can’t explain the mental state I go into but it all comes pouring out when I develop the relationship, the sexual tension, and then the way they physically express that higher level of love for each other.”
Okay so one, now I was possibly to blame for all of this to begin with, not protecting my son like I thought I was. Dylan developing a taste for women my age was definitely to do with the typical teen masturbatory şirinyer escort revelation. The prospect winded me.
Two, he had automatically linked that to his own emotional outpouring of love for me, a love that might not have been so twisted or shameful, but one now possibly associated with shame. I was trying to read between the lines before I’d even got to the end.
“Sometimes,” he concluded, “probably because I’m multitasking cooking up new story ideas with taking pleasure from the thoughts I have, I imagine things similar to the way you do. I imagine coming clean and telling her. Sometimes in my mind it takes such an emotional outpouring, and then other times it’s as simple as the both of us just giving into an unexpected lapse of moral judgement and feeling nothing but good coming from casual sex with each other.”
Wow…
So soon and yet already I did experience my own lapse of moral judgement. I emailed him good night, telling him that I did feel the same and that it was good to share with someone likeminded.
Maybe the boy was homesick deep at heart. Maybe I was sickening to not be so alone. I know that I was feeling validated in both love and lust, but I didn’t know how to rationalise that.
I finished by suggesting again that he message me back whenever he liked, and that I would reply when I could, adding, “the thing I get about such powerful incest fantasy is that it’s black and white, no grey area – either the object of your fantasy would be mortified to hear your thoughts, or else they would be powerless in the experience of your feelings.”
That’s why I loved it so much. Here I was lying in bed telling my son via email that it was more than okay to fantasise about me, and yet he had no way of knowing. Contrastingly I was admitting that I was powerless before his sexually explicit written exploits, that essentially if only he knew who he was talking to he might be pleasantly shocked to know both my thoughts and feelings.
10.
That Saturday I decided that I’d deserved the afternoon off. I went out and posted my parcels and grabbed a loaf and a pack of bacon on the way back, calling you know who to ask if he fancied some lunch.
Dylan arrived shortly. He didn’t stray far from the nest after all. Still at such short notice he managed to bring his bedhead, a bag of dirty laundry, and half a week’s worth of body odour.
Disingenuously I rolled my eyes at the sight and smell of him, because a mother’s work is obviously never done. As I hugged him though and kissed him on the corner of the mouth, I took his masculine scent into me and savoured his taste on my lips.
“Get in the shower, you filthy animal,” I scalded, taking his bag of laundry into the kitchen with me. “Bacon sandwich in twenty minutes or else you’re having it cold.”
I bundled his washing into the machine. I didn’t care if he brought me whites with colours. He had to learn something for himself. Hurriedly I oiled a pan, heated it over the stove, and in the time it took for the bacon to start sizzling, I was back in his mailbox while I had the chance.
“You still didn’t tell me any of your fantasies. Not that you have to, but it is what I do lol.”
I had to admire the ease with which he approached that, but god my fingers were all of a sudden jittery as I typed my own reply as quickly as I could.
“I had a pretty spicy fantasy last night after talking to you,” I started. Who was I? Was I really thinking of writing what I was about to? “I lie and tell him that I’ve started to go to therapy and that as a result of my distrust of men I’ve developed a perversion and that my therapist thinks I should come clean in order to overcome my aversions.”
I go further: “He looks shocked at me. I joke that he seems surprised that the mother-son kink works both ways and that if I didn’t know better I’d think he believed his dreams were coming true. I tell him seriously then that I know he doesn’t feel that way about me, that I won’t scare him away with such things.”
“He summons the courage to tell me that he’d be so lucky. We talk about what could change if we were both up for it – for exploring the fantasy for real!”
I leave it there, a cliffhanger Ode2Lofn be proud of!
11.
I looked it up briefly, the name Lofn. Lofn was the Norse goddess of forbidden marriages, translated in different languages as the gentle, the comforter, the loving, of high praise. There’s a lot to take from that, would some of you only consider how your son looks up to you unconditionally.
Lofn has also been theorised to be Frigg in disguise: goddess of marriage and women. And in turn Frigga has also been theorised to be Freyja: mother goddess of love, sex, and beauty, to name a few. Some things just ring true to your ears before you know what they mean.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32