Motherfucker - Sex Stories

Motherfucker

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Motherfucker

by rat_race

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I didn't mean for something like this to ever happen. And I certainly didn't mean for it to keep taking place over and over again. But that didn't stop it from happening. It only made me feel guilty and ashamed about what I was doing.

But those feelings of guilt and shame still didn't stop me, a 35-year-old man, from fucking my own 57-year-old mother on a regular basis--and looking forward to each time that we had sex.

Let me back up a little bit, and tell you my story. And maybe you'll understand. Maybe you won't. But I don't really care at this point in my life. I know that what my mother and I have together is a very special, loving relationship. And it has been that way, long before we ever began having sex together.

My father, Sam, suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack five years ago, leaving my mother, Janie, who was 52 at the time of his death, to live all by herself in our three-bedroom, ranch-style family home in Beaumont, Texas.

My dad worked in the oil fields outside Beaumont, and was a very physical kind of guy. And as far as I could tell, he absolutely loved two things: his booze (BTW, he was not an alcoholic, thank God) and his sex, which Mother was always more than happy to provide him on demand.

I know. Because when I was growing up, I could hear Mom and Dad going at it in their bedroom through the non-insulated interior walls of our old house. The fact that Mom was a real screamer ...

... during her orgasms, and that my bedroom just happened to share the same interior wall with their master bedroom, coupled with the fact that my parents' bed and my bed were pushed up against that same wall (on either side of it, of course), only served to make me totally aware of each and every time that they were having sex during the nighttime hours.

When I was a young boy, I assumed that Dad was somehow hurting Mom during the night. But I knew that it wasn't really any of my business.

And besides, I never heard Mom complain about anything that my dad did the night before, whenever she was up early the next morning, making breakfast for the family, and doing so in a very loving, cheerful manner, I might add. Mom would always give Dad a big kiss when he would finally walk into the kitchen to sit down to have his breakfast before he headed off to work.

Not only that, but the next morning, I never saw any obvious bruises anywhere on Mom's body--at least on the parts that I could actually see when she had clothing on, that is.

And so I was happy to go on about the business of being a young boy, and let Mom and Dad deal with their own late-night screaming stuff.

One time, I almost asked my mom about all the screaming and moaning coming from her bedroom the night before. But then I decided that it was in my best interest not to mention anything, since she didn't feel that it was worth mentioning to me herself.

After I had reached puberty and learned more about "the ...