10 comments/ 118396 views/ 31 favorites My Old Mum By: RustyDusty When I first wrote about my desires and experiences I had to give a qualification that I was reporting the truth and therefore it was not hardcore porn but titillation at most. Some would find it dull, others disgusting, few (I thought) would find it sexually exciting. However many seemed to like reading about it and I now have online exchanges with like-minded people, perhaps surprisingly not all men. So for those who missed it first time round I repeat my original confessions as "Part 1" below. For those who are interested only in my more recent experience then skip to Part 2. Part 1 The following is not a story but a truthful account. Life is rarely as perfect as fiction and we have to make do. So at the outset I warn you that this is all quite tame, nothing to get too exercised about so don't expect major hardcore, just the truth. Funnily enough, when reading erotica I prefer a realistic account of something mundane that genuinely happened rather than a more spicy fictional account - I usually find it more exciting that way; because it's true then it's believable and believable is more fun, well for me anyway. Don't read on if you disagree. Like many (even like most, I imagine) people I used to be revolted by the thought of my parents having sex or anything like that - I realised they were entitled to, of course, but the idea just turned me off as did the very notion of anything sexual to do with my Mum. As a teenager in the 1970's if I was masturbating (which I frequently was) any interruption such as Mum shouting up the stairs to me or passing across my view if I was wanking about the woman next door from my bedroom window was a guaranteed cock-softener. Not that Mum was revolting or anything, she was just a plain mummy-type, about 5'6'', size 12, 36B/C boobs (I've since seen her bra-labels and assume they've not grown), pleasant face (but never any make-up - quite old-fashioned in that respect), delicate feminine hands, nice enough legs (never trousers, always knee-length skirts and dresses) rarely bare-legged but always wore tights by that age, stockings when I was younger (although oddly she has gone back to wearing stockings occasionally - probably a personal comfort thing). She was and is a genuinely nice, kind, loving, shy, modest woman - almost completely selfless in her behaviour, I know nobody even close to her kindness. As to the turn-off, I guess it was just that she was my mother and I her son, so why would I feel anything other than that? It was the "correct "order of things, the way things "ought" to be and I was inexperienced with plenty of other new stuff to explore sexually. For reasons too long to go into here (and of no interest) I knew her to be almost entirely disinterested in sex - my father went short for years. Yet she was not illiberal in her attitudes -always happy to enlighten me about growing-up things like women having periods, sanitary towels, the so called facts of life, how to treat my first and subsequent girl-friends - I'd always confide in her rather than my Dad whom I loved deeply but found more of an authoritarian figure. Mum was more on my level, so to speak - but I certainly didn't fancy her at all. Yet about 6 months after my Dad died (by then she was 65 and I was 40, married with a family) when I got bored of the usual wanking subjects (women at work, my mother, friends and so on) I found myself occasionally fantasising about having sex with her. I would masturbate about her, ignoring the revulsion (and it was still revolting to me) just to have something different to climax about; I'd enjoy the orgasm but then feel wholly revolted with myself again afterwards (typical man, shoot and lose interest), thinking I'd never do it again. But I did do it, more and more often and it stopped revolting me and began to genuinely appeal rather than just be a novelty. I still didn't "fancy" her in the accepted sense. She's no GILF like say Joan Collins, just a plain old granny - a bit stooped, a little shorter than she used to be and of slight build, quite frail from arthritis, with swollen ankles lots of the time, shortish grey hair and of course wrinkles. Despite her slight frame she still has pert-looking boobs of some size although this is only apparent from the side because she still dresses conservatively, still never trousers and still no make-up. That said I do quite fancy much older women (70's, even 80's - for instance I'd definitely fuck my mother although she's a bit more presentable even at her age) but not my Mum - she's simply not attractive in that way. If I had to make a comparison I'd say Mum is quite like Grandma Walton (Google her pic if you're too young to remember The Waltons TV program), not facially but in build and overall appearance including a quite prudish dress sense (albeit not 1920's hillbilly!). I guess the turn-on was the taboo aspect - not just a pensioner but my own mother and here I was regularly emptying my balls about her. If I'm honest I guess there could have been some bullying going on too, or some personal inadequacy on my part - you know the score: slightly dominant father dies; I take my chance to wreak revenge by dominating (in fantasy) "his" woman. I don't know this to be the case, I certainly don't consciously feel resentful towards my Dad - I loved him, still do. I'm just trying to be honest (as I say, more exciting that way) and admit the possibility it could be some subliminal neurosis of mine rather than just the fact I'm a dirty bastard. Anyway, in the months after Dad died I even found myself occasionally talking with her in all sorts of very mildly flirtatious ways - how I'd found her attractive when I was going through puberty (an utter lie as you now know) and how I'd come home from school and try to spy on her naked in the bath (I hadn't - well, I did try just once and failed - to my subsequent relief at the time!) and how I'd masturbated about her as part of my growing-up (in fact I said "I enjoyed myself about you... if you know what I mean?" - she did know what I meant, as I've said, we can talk like that). But it was all untrue, I'd done none of those things. I told her she'd worn well for her age - bluntly she hadn't worn at all well but it sort of tied in with the rest of what I was saying so there seemed no harm in saying it. These revelations happened a few times and she would take it all in a totally-matter-of-fact way, not raising an eyebrow, just making motherly noises like "I expect most boys go through that." and so on (I bet they don't!). I wasn't surprised by her relaxed attitude but I don't really know what I'd hoped to achieve by saying any of this to her - probably nothing, just pushing the boundaries as it were, finding limits. Nothing came of it - I hadn't expected anything to. As I've said, she's totally nice (so wouldn't do anything that might upset my marriage), disinterested in sex (so would hardly overlook the fact that we are mother and son and offer me a shag) and frankly had been torn-apart by the loss of my father whom she idolised (and still does) and on whom she had relied rather too much in life. She's also far from self-confident and not at all worldly-wise, although has grown mainly to cope with routine things over the last decade of living alone. I suppose I might have been doing it because of the slight dare of verbally walking up to the subject that I was wanking about her but then stopping short, I don't know. Anyway, it passed and conversations like that stopped for years but I carried on tossing myself off about various scenarios involving her and unlike other women about whom I wank the thrill has never worn off. I'm now in my early 50's and she's nearly 76, that bit more decrepit and worn out but I still would love to fill her full of me. She's definitely my ultimate fantasy albeit I'm not obsessed, I do wank about other women and have the occasional sexual encounter with my wife. I've done all sorts of things to embellish my mother-fetish, mostly quite tame again I'm afraid: I've made good quality fake photo's putting her head on pictures of various nude women of ages matching the age she was in her photo - her 20's, 40's and 70's - and wanked myself sore over them; I've swapped those fakes with blokes on the internet; I've posed as Mum in internet chat rooms, having cyber-sex with other men believing me to be an elderly widow. I'm not remotely gay (although I'm not against it), however in my experience there are few real women in those places and I can quite happily get off by doing this, getting really horny when I know others are cumming about my Mum - even watching them on a webcam ejaculate about her or in tributed pictures they email me, her face covered in their spunk. When I've been lucky I've had some role play in chat rooms with people pretending to be Mum for me so I can have cybersex with "her" (quite ridiculous really - she'd have no idea how to even switch on a computer and, of course, the people I chat to don't know her so can't behave as she would - but I've made do, better than nothing). I occasionally get access to Mum's knickers, stockings or tights and borrow those to supplement my fantasies, cumming in the damp gusset or the salty nylon foot, all the better when unwashed of course, although I can't bring myself to suck or sniff them, I simply prefer the idea of them having been worn by her, and like to mix my juices with hers, just getting an occasional feint whiff of her rather than a full-on blast; I've cum in her face cream, on her toothbrush, her freshly-laundered knickers - that way I get the thrill of knowing she's had my spunk in her mouth or against her pussy lips. I used to do similar things to other, more remote relatives (my gran, aunts, cousins) as an adolescent and have done it since to my mother's stuff - it just works for me, sorry if it's creepy. So that became the shape of things until about three years ago when I decided I wanted more. Again I warn you don't expect too much here - I'm not going to pretend we're nightly lovers, far from it. I schemed for ages but, in a nutshell, I decided I could probably ask Mum for a topless photo - nothing sultry or erotic, no fancy clothing, just stripped to the waist, boobs out, almost like a medical examination and a simple picture which I could then wank over and, of course, share with those I'd become familiar with on the web who have similar passions - there aren't many, at least not many who're prepared to admit it. The question of how to broach the subject was easy - my wife and I were going through a particularly sticky patch and I would frequently complain to Mum about my treatment at my wife's hands (in fact I'm sure I was as much to blame for the issues as my wife). It would be a small step to reveal the then truth that our sex life was suffering and pretend that, as a result, I was contemplating going elsewhere for sexual pleasures as I couldn't get them at home. My Mum has such high regard for my wife that she would surely see when I asked for the photo that it would be the lesser of two evils to show me her tits rather than me waste money and cause infidelity going to a prostitute (in fact I'd not have the nerve to visit a prostitute but Mum is naïve and wouldn't know that). I fantasised for ages about how it would work in practical terms. Would I give her the digital camera and ask her to self-time a snap so that I didn't have to be present? This would have the dual benefit of reducing her embarrassment and of presenting me with a photo afresh - how exciting! But then she's hopeless with even the simplest technology - I was sure she'd mess it up. So how about me setting the camera to movie mode so that all she had to do was press the go button? That way I would also have the pleasure of seeing her undress and, perhaps, of eaves-dropping any private and revealing muttering she might do to herself, unaware the movie would have sound. Again, similar practical limitations applied plus I would not have as good a definition still picture to wank about. So that left me the option of doing it myself, preferably movie mode (without her knowing) as she undressed then a quick switch to high-resolution stills for some portraits - I might even get to tweak her nipples if they were flat, "Just for the camera you understand...". I came long, often and hard just plotting these things, imagining what might happen - would she insist on getting undressed first with me outside the room? Or would I be in there, camera running? It was all too exciting. But when an opportunity presented itself it was all very different. We sat at her kitchen table drinking coffee (she doesn't drink alcohol at all, it doesn't agree with her) and I played out my scheme: neglectful wife; did she remember how I'd said I'd wanked about her when younger? Well I was doing it again - did she mind? ("No Love, not if it helps you with things at home, relieves the pressures..."). I even showed her some of the fake pics on my phone - some were even fakes of me fucking her but she was more flabbergasted by the skill of my photo-editing and how convincing it was than by the subject matter. She did make one or two "Oh Richard!" exclamations in a semi-rebuking, semi-embarrassed way but on balance she was cool as a cucumber - all was pointing in the right direction. And that included my cock which was as hard as glass and dripping pre-cum into my suit trousers (it was after work) - I even had the nerve to push it down saying "It's got a bit crowded in here!" so as to draw attention to my erection - but again she was nonchalant. As I recall she simply said "You'd better calm down!" meaning I'd best lose the swelling before I went home in case my wife got the idea I'd been seeing another woman - how bizarrely practical of her. My heart in my mouth, temples pumping and dry-mouthed I popped the question - could I have a real photo? Please? Just one which nobody else would see and which I would keep safe. She could take it herself if she preferred - we'd find a way? I had imagined she'd laugh and think I was joking at first before saying "Well, if you want to then I suppose so..." but no such luck. She thought about it - asked me lots of predictable questions about it falling into the wrong hands, what if the family found it, that type of thing - I was amazed, stupidly I suppose. Despite her being a self-professed virtual sex-free-zone I'd thought nothing would be too much trouble for me, her boy but clearly it was not as simple as that. She couldn't betray my wife - it wouldn't be right. She wouldn't mind otherwise if it would help me but no, sorry, too much was at stake. I was thunder-struck. I suspect you are too, sorry, but I did say that this would be a faithful account and I'm not about to pretend she turned into a horny slut when quite clearly that would be bullshit. We talked round the subject for ages. At one point she asked "Why a photograph? How about if you just had a look?". Her intention was that nobody could find anything incriminating that way. So I explained (but more delicately) that I couldn't just toss myself off in front of her whilst ogling her chest (though, between you and me, I'd love to!) whereas with a photo I could "Enjoy myself whenever I pleased...". But anyway, it wasn't an offer - she wasn't suggesting she'd give me a flash in the flesh, merely exploring the possibilities, thinking aloud. Damn! She droned on about her boobs being droopy these days, her skin dry and out of condition so why would I be interested? Why, indeed. But no amount of flattery, logic, pleading made any difference - she wouldn't, sorry, it would be unfair on my wife. Otherwise she would, but not in the circumstances. Well I didn't want to hear that last bit especially - can you imagine my frustration that, in order to shut me up she'd have granted my wish and posed topless but because of her affection for my wife (with whom I was, of course, already not on the best of terms) she just couldn't? I had some consolation later in that all the adrenalin meant I came pints when I got home but it wasn't what I'd expected, and clearly not what I'd wanted. I brought it up again. Often. Maybe half a dozen times over the next six months but she didn't waver and, in the end, I decided I was being selfish, imposing on our relationship (on which she counted for many things) and further undermining her already low self-esteem. So I gave up. Sure, it got mentioned loosely in passing every now and then, or in jest when, say, she mentioned the tits (birds) in her garden and I would make a corny remark of some sort. But nothing of any seriousness and certainly not to the extent we'd talked during those few months after I'd first asked her. I continued to play on the internet, take her things, wank about her (even simple stuff like wanking about being allowed after all to take the photo) but I had to write off any idea of it actually happening. Things improved with my wife and our sex life perked up - but that's not part of this account. Basically, I had enough to be going on with, despite being deprived of the real thing with Mum. I could close my eyes and imagine I was fucking Mum when my wife climbed aboard my cock. Then last Christmas Mum came to stay with us for a few days. We've a separate a guest wing where she would sleep, bathe and so on - perfect for a hidden cam. By dint of casual comments ("Is the bathroom warm enough for you at night, Mum?". "Yes Love, thank you - anyway I change in the bedroom so I don't get cold cleaning my teeth!") I discovered where to place the camera and on her final night planted it behind some books, pointing at the part of the room in which she would inevitably stand to undress - with 90 minutes recording time I only had to hope she would face the correct way. Boy was I dry-mouthed - others were in the house and discovery by anyone other than Mum would have been ruination of all sorts of relationships - I was being too selfish really but you might know what it's like when you're horny. The following morning I made an excuse to use the bathroom in her quarters and retrieved the camera. Amazingly the batteries still had life - at first I thought it had switched off before capturing anything, I was so disappointed. But no - fast forwarding, sure enough Mum came into view, still fully dressed. Perfect. She even walked over towards where the camera was - I couldn't believe my luck. But then as she unbuttoned her blouse and folded it away it dawned on me the camera was pointing too high, just above the top of her boobs - I could just see her breast bone - shit! She took her slip over her head and slid her bra straps off her shoulders before swivelling it round her body so that the clasp was at the front, presumably beneath her now exposed bosom and easier for her stiff hands to unfasten - it would have been magnificent to see her tits like that, each would have dropped from its cup as she'd slid her arms out of the shoulder straps and then, having brought the bra clasp to the front I guess she'd have had to lift each breast to unhook the clasp. Shit, shit, shit! My swollen cock shrivelled to almost nothing and a line of now cold pre-cum dripped down my thigh as I stood (I'd been pretending to use the toilet, trousers around ankles). It was difficult to maintain a smile over breakfast but I wrote it off to experience and just carried on where I'd left off, making do with my imagination. One of the blokes I got chatting to on the web had very similar desires and difficulties. He is in his 50's, his widowed Mum a lovely lady also in her 70's - entirely different appearance to my mother but delightful, prudish and shy too. He and I compared notes and the whole thing rekindled my desire for something more than just fakes and thoughts - I wanted something tangible, preferably real. He and I traded pics - he made some great fakes of my Mum, and we swapped ideas and fantasies, adding fuel to my already hot fire. So I resolved to raise the subject with Mum again when the chance arose - could I please have a picture? My Old Mum As she needs my help with things I have plenty of opportunity to visit Mum (handy for borrowing her underwear too, of course) and within days I was in her kitchen, talking about anything and everything before popping the question. I didn't just blunder in, I made sure it was in context (as much as it could be) so I complained about being sex-starved at home (even though, as I've said, that's not the case these days) and she explained that women can go off sex during the menopause, that she had done so herself ("Not that I was ever much on it." she said, commiserating on behalf of my Dad). "But it'll come back Love, I'm sure, if you wait - it's bound to..." I wasn't so sure but of course that wasn't the point I was interested in. I was so keyed up, tense, nervous. Perhaps you can imagine I was as hard as nails, a small damp patch visible on my trouser front more from adrenaline than arousal. I adjusted myself but she didn't look - maybe deliberately so, I can't say. So again I asked, please, please could I have a picture of her topless? I'd keep it safe - she must surely understand that if she had needs then I would obviously have them? But she was having none of it, trying to console me that it was nothing to do with needs, simply that she would feel she was undermining my wife, going behind her back and that she wasn't prepared to do that. Inevitably we debated it for ages but it was no use, I recognised the signs, it was hopeless. And during all of this there was stuff I would usually find very titillating: the content of the conversation of course; the fact she had kicked off her slippers to reveal her golden-nylon-clad feet, wriggling her toes in the thicker nylon that covered them (she doesn't know of my fetish in that department); a slight chill in the air causing her nipples to make the slightest of bumps in her blouse (she never wears revealing clothing or low-cut necklines, again I have to make do with such scraps). Though of course I noticed these things all of them counted as nothing against the main disappointment. Still, what could I do? Persist is the answer! And I did persist - almost every time we spoke for a month or so I would raise the subject in some way, asking supplementary questions about her own sexual activity, pleading with her to reconsider a photo, reasoning with her that it would not be betraying my wife but aiding our marital harmony (liar!). She must have been sick of it, and can have been in no doubt that I wanted some part of her to which I have had no entitlement since she stopped breast feeding me. With hindsight I feel somewhat guilty but she stuck to her guns, remaining tolerant and kind throughout - though goodness only knows what my Dad would have said. And then, a couple of weeks back I cracked her! My persuasion was not that much improved so I don't know what did it. Having driven her home from a visit to our house we went into hers and I put on the kettle, still discussing what to do about the curtains I was intending to take down and take home to wash for her. She took off her jacket, unfastened her shoes and padded in her stockinged feet toward the coat cupboard - I watched, enjoying the spectacle. We sat at the kitchen table and drank coffee - would I like a biscuit? No thanks. The usual banal banter before some silence, not awkward, just no more to say. I finished my drink but stayed seated. "Mum - I'm sorry to go on about this but can I just ask one more thing and then I promise I'll let the subject drop?". Of course she knew exactly what the subject would be, rolling her eyes and smiling awkwardly but indulgently she nodded "Yes, go on then...". I plucked up my courage again, largely because of my embarrassment at bringing up the subject for the umpteenth time. "You know when I first asked you for a photo you said couldn't I make do with just looking? Well... does that offer stand?". I exaggerated - it hadn't been an offer, but I was hoping her failing memory would distort things and make her feel guilty enough to relent. "It wasn't an offer Love - I was just talking. You know I can't." she seemed genuinely deflated, almost as though she were letting me down. So I argued a different tack. "But it wouldn't be betraying her..." meaning my wife - I might have used her name, I'm not sure. "I know you care about her, but you care about me too. You know how unfairly she treats me - wouldn't you like to redress the balance slightly? I'm not saying to get one over on her, just even things up for me, give me some pleasure...". I'm sure I held my breath, certainly I wasn't as stressed as I had been when I'd first asked her for the photo - clearly we'd talked of it too often for that. She was quiet for what seemed like minutes but then eased herself to her feet and said a weary "Come on then!", not at all playful, more resigned to it. I tried to look uncertain and she said, "One quick look, and that's it, alright?" I was awe-struck. She said something about getting on with it before she got scared and then asked me "Will this be an end to it? No more badgering?". I really couldn't believe it and just nodded - not even sure it was what I wanted any more, so unexpected was this turn of events. I asked was she sure and she said she wasn't but (thank God!) nevertheless left the kitchen and went out into the hall, sitting on her stair lift and making it climb the stairs. My heart was pounding as I stood at the bottom of the first flight and asked "Do I come up now... or wait?". Her response might have been a little terse, I can't really remember but that's the impression it left with me "Up to you...". As she stood from the chair and disappeared onto the landing I just paced about, first making to climb the stairs, then not wanting to appear hurried so turning away, then realising I would of course be keen after all my pestering so why should I try to appear casual now?! I charged up - Mum had barely made it to her bedroom because of her aching legs but was drawing the curtains closed. "Can I put on the light?" I asked - she nodded and took off her cardigan, tossing it onto her neat little bed. She undressed without ceremony and I watched in disbelief as her bony fingers undid the buttons on her blue cotton blouse, from the top down, gradually revealing a nylon bra-slip in paler blue and with lace trimmings around each of her breasts. It was obvious that her hurrying hurt her arthritis a little and she winced as she pulled the tail of her blouse from her skirt before throwing that onto the bed too. "I'm not taking everything off." she warned and I nodded. "And just a quick look, alright?". I nodded again, aware that instead of an erection I simply had a pleasurable terror in my loins, leaking pre-cum that one can get when afraid or excited in other ways. Stupidly I wasted some viewing time by looking away for a second or two in a mistaken gesture of respect, then regained my composure as she slid the straps of the slip from her shoulders and slid her willowy but baggy, wrinkled arms from them, pulling each cup from its place to reveal a ribbed breast bone and surprisingly scraggy neck (she always wears high necklines) above a white cotton bra again with lace trim, partly see-through on the top of her breasts but without the colour of her nipples being visible albeit, excitingly, I could just make out their shape. My cock was now swelling and I felt in danger of spontaneous ejaculation - it was all I could do not to touch myself but I sensed that if I came I might feel the disgust I used to feel when first wanking about her and as a result stop her from taking off her bra. That would never do. Her slip now hanging down over the waistband of her skirt, revealing a slightly sagging pot belly Mum looked at me for confirmation that she should take of her bra. She didn't need to speak, nor I to reply and she looked down and pulled the bra straps from her sloping shoulders, one at a time, again lifting her arms through the loops as she took each cup from her breasts, revealing the soft, gently wobbling flesh to the stark electric lighting. It was magnificent! Rather than pulling the clasp to the front again as she had when I had filmed her at Christmas she simply pushed the still fastened band down, over her tummy and her boobs drooped slightly as they lost the support of the wire underneath, swaying from side-to-side under their own weight and pulling on the centre of her ribcage so that the skin stretched into vertical wrinkles at the her cleavage, pulling on each of her tits and causing it to lose a little more shape, her nipples being pulled towards her sides, pointing outwards like imperfectly aligned eyes. I didn't see her unfasten her bra but she threw it to one side and again her brilliant tits swayed from side to side, her nipples pricking hard in the chilled air - fucking hell! Her skin was as pale as can be, almost translucent and with a bluish hue, one or two veins visible like rivers on a map as they traversed her round breasts, their tips drawn up into a dog-nosed pertness by the tightness of her elderly skin. Mum brushed the palm of each hand quickly over each of her nipples as if to fully free them from captivity and their centres were now quite proud and raised, standing up from rose pink areola which were crinkled with cold rather than age. I had to adjust my penis which was now pointing at my mother like an arrow and she must have seen both the enormity of my swelling and the dark patch developing on my light grey trousers. That touching nearly made me cum - I was like a virgin again, almost spunking at the sight of my first girlfriend's tits but here I was instead my fifties, highly experienced sexually and yet barely able to contain myself at the sight of my 75 year old mother's sagging boobs. I bolted from the room and up a further half-flight of stairs to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and uncontrollably ripping down my trousers before wanking into Mum's toilet - it could have taken only three strokes and I sent a jet of semen against the seat lid before better aiming the rest into the water in the pan, hanging there like candle wax setting. I was shaking with excitement and bright red in the face, the ammonia smell of spunk heavily laden with sperm like a younger man's, rather than my more usual watery offerings - this lot had come from deep inside and my stomach muscles felt almost cramped as I straightened up from the almost foetal position I had adopted as I'd tried to shoot into the loo, rather than over it. I cleaned myself and the toilet, resisting the temptation to see if there were any knickers or nylons in Mum's laundry basket - I was by no means disgusted at the prospect of fucking her as I thought I might have been once I'd shot my load. God - what to do now? She must have known I had cum and that was difficult - it's one thing to tell someone that you do it, it's another to do it visibly as a consequence of the sexual arousal they've just caused. Instinctively I left the bathroom and scurried downstairs, shouting back that I would put on the kettle (the English solution to most things). When Mum came downstairs she was full dressed and there felt to be an uncomfortable silence. My face was still flushed and this made worse my difficulty about having cum in Mum's bathroom - I didn't know what to say, nor did she it seems. When we parted it was easier, almost friendly - I went to say thank you but she motioned me not to - she did a watery smile and, I think, said "No, don't." or some such. And I'm afraid that's it. I've had great sex with my wife since and wanked about nothing else (so far borrowing only some of Mum's freshly discarded laddered stockings for added pleasure - she won't possibly know I have them!). I still want a photo, but it's early days yet - I must let her get used to the idea that I've seen her tits first, then raise the subject again, but don't hold your breath! Part 2 I've spent much of the last year working harder than I like, lots of it away from home so haven't been able to dedicate the time I'd hoped to sexual matters. Life with my wife goes on, ups and downs both in and out of the bedroom; my Mum's now 76 (in fact going on 77) and is still the main object of my desire; and I've had a few triumphs. Chief among the smaller triumphs has been getting Mum online. I can't believe it but she's an ardent silver surfer now despite her aversion to technology and general ineptitude with anything new. I gave her my old PC when I upgraded and she just took to it after a few lessons (I had to be patient). She even progressed onto a better one when the first broke and was quite heart-broken when she couldn't use her favourite chat room until the new one was set up. Suffice to say I've taken some advantage of that, gradually forming a chat relationship with her (of course she doesn't know it's me, I pose as another elderly widow in fact) and we have fairly intimate albeit not overtly sexual conversations about underwear, our dead husbands and their likes and dislikes, that sort of thing. I've been intrigued to learn of Dad's sexual preferences towards her and although she's definitely not had massive sexual appetites I'm beginning to think she might have taken more pleasure than merely satisfying her beloved's needs. Of course she doesn't use the sort of terminology I can here and she types her accounts without much lust but broadly it seems to me that as a younger couple they were fairly active but then as Mum's arthritis began to bite they moderated their behaviour and found other avenues of erotic excitement which saved her the real pain she would otherwise experience from full intercourse, especially with my Dad on top. Despite the fairly mild way she refers to things, because they're true (as I've said before) I find it incredibly exciting - and this is all added to by the thrill of deceit in that she doesn't know who she's chatting with! I've had two amazing wanking sessions whilst chatting with her, making more cum than I have for years, shooting it further than I have for years and full of more sperm (well, whiter and thicker anyway) than it's been for years. Thanks Mum! I've now got so into her that I even tossed myself off while talking with her on the phone about household repairs! I managed to keep up the conversation right through when I came, spurting what felt like a pint of spunk inside my trousers (my wife was about so I had to keep dressed), although I admit I was only making uh-huh type sounds and she did accuse me of nodding off through boredom - naturally I protested the opposite although didn't admit how excited I really was! Whilst chatting online I've learned how the seams on Morrisons tights tend to rub her toes but other supermarket and M&S brands don't; why she always wears only tan coloured tights and stockings (essentially because her mother did and Mum was made to feel by her that any other shade was somehow an invitation to bed!); why she still wears stockings occasionally (because they're easier than tights to pull up with her painful hands) but only rarely (because her thighs are now wasting so hold-ups slip down and suspenders are also fiddly with her sore joints); how M&S knickers are best, warmer cotton in the winter but cooler cotton blend in the summer and how if they're soft enough and not too tight around the waist that makes them not only more comfy but easier to get on and (more importantly) off - such detail! I've also learned where I get my stocking fetish from - Mum confided online that Dad was very keen and hugely disappointed when tights became the norm. When they were younger he would buy her old fashioned style nylons which Mum found too hot to wear on an everyday basis but which occasionally she would (I think she was hinting) wear in bed for him. Stepping up a gear he also liked Mum to suck him off (she didn't use that phrase but she did more than hint about this) through the foot of her tights or stockings (presumably those she'd just taken off which is another kinky pleasure of mine - sadly not with my Mum though!) which apparently made her lips sore. As they grew older and if Mum was having a particularly bad spell of stiffness and pain he would resort to her pulling him off into her knickers (again, she wasn't wholly explicit but there was little doubt what she meant) or even onto her breasts but not between her legs (I asked but didn't find out why not). The list is quite long - shall I go on? Doubtless of greater interest to me than to you but I will... Dad never wore Mum's knickers or hosiery (I asked) but he did like her to use the clothing she'd taken off on him (a stocking worn as a glove for instance) when they were making love. Otherwise their intercourse was "...fairly usual" as Mum called it - I took her to mean missionary position although I know she would sometimes go on top (but could only wriggle, not bounce up and down) and would infrequently stand, leaning against "...something tall, like the dressing table..." so that he could enter her from behind (never in her bottom you understand, so just doggy fashion up her cunt I suppose). Amazing - I was bursting when she typed about this even though I'd already cum about something else only minutes earlier. I've yet to find out what he thought of her tits but I know he was a "...bosom man...". She's also confided that he wanted her to pose for photographs - I don't yet know if she did but I doubt it, it was before the days of digital photography and they'd have had no idea where to get saucy pictures developed. I took the impression that for the last few years of their life together Dad had increasingly relied on these side activities to get him off as Mum was rarely able to go the whole way in bed because of her infirmity. He'd apparently proposed that she flaunt herself to one of their younger neighbours (I've no idea what this meant but as much as I might find her an object of fascination, believe me, Mum's not the flaunting kind - more the old-lady-who-lived-in-a-shoe kind, even 20 years ago) I shall try to find out of course but can't appear too interested. Showing her off sort of ties-in with Dad's photography request in that earlier in their marriage he'd had apparently wanted photo's to show to workmates - again I must get more detail, what did he hope to achieve? Did they wife swap? (No way!) I so hope those photos exist, unlikely though it is. Even in that there's a certain symmetry, Dad's urges matching my desire to get a photo of Mum topless - spooky. I've got nowhere on that front. I have raised the subject twice more but Mum just side-steps. It's so frustrating because I get worked up to ask, dry mouth, pounding heart and she just says things like "Now we've had all this out before, you're supposed to have left that subject behind", looks kind of hurt and then starts on about yoghurt or some other trivia. I have got some photography though, as you'll see. However, just to finish the online subject, I've given Mum's chat details to one of my online mates (he loves elderly women too and has a thing for his own very desirable 78 year old mother) in the hope he can get her to reveal more, perhaps even have cyber-sex with him so he can share a few highlights with me. Again, no luck to date but obviously it's difficult for two total strangers to co-ordinate being online at the same time, especially when one of them doesn't know she's being set up, nor even the existence of her would-be cyber stud! My other small triumphs come in the shape of some hidden camera filming, thanks to the same mate. He put me on to an affordable discreet device I've managed to hide and have filmed my wife, mother and Mum in various states of undress and undressing. I'm happy to share the movies or screen prints with those I can trust to keep my secrets but, again, Mum's involvement has been limited by circumstance. With few exceptions (one very notable, to which I shall come later) the only times Mum gets at all undressed while in the same house as me (and my cam) is when she uses the toilet. Consequently I have two movies of Mum pulling down her knickers, sitting on the loo to wee and then dabbing herself dry after. They're not great, except for the invasion of her privacy which is very exciting to me. You get a really good view of her cute little bottom (but I've never really been a bottom man), you can't see her pussy (too little light) or pubic mound (she turns too quickly) and on both days she was wearing those awful knee-high stockings rather than full stockings or tights so there's no hosiery action for me to enjoy! My Old Mum But don't misunderstand me, I've had plenty of decent wanks about them - it's very exciting to see Mum's dainty little fingers from behind, fiddling between her legs after she's dabbed herself with tissue (goodness only knows what she's doing, it's definitely not sexual but does look that way) and of course even a boob and legs man can't help but be hardened by the sight of his fragile, 76 year old mother's bare arse being lowered slowly down as though onto an erect cock! Yes, I've emptied my balls about both movies many times. Before then I also managed a couple of upskirt movies where Mum's knickers (including the crotch) are visible but I'm not really into underwear as such. They're OK to wank with or into but had they have been anyone's other than my Mum's knickers or some other lady of my acquaintance then I don't think I would have been particularly interested. As it is I've tossed myself off about the view quite a few times but more because of who it is, rather than what they are. In case you're interested (my mate who suggested the cam is interested, in fact he's very interested) Mum wears big, soft granny knickers - not the sort with legs in them but like big briefs; they sit as high around the waist as tights and extend a little way down her thighs, completely enclosing her buttocks; at the front you can just make out a dark triangle which is her pubic hair and at the crotch you can see where the crease of her bottom continues to make a crease in the cotton gusset following her pussy lips (well, I like to think that's what it is); she generally wears white but has pink and pale blue too, all very safe and very definitely not flaunting outfit! As I say, I'm happy to share videos and stills once I get some confidence in whoever's asking - so feel free to ask. And until late last week that's how the rest of my year had progressed on a sexual level: still unable to persuade my Mum into a topless photo but some consolation from chatting to her anonymously online and from hidden cam fun involving various women but, of course, most excitingly Mum herself. I'd plans for all sorts of things in the coming months (no pun intended): showing Mum videos of my mate tributing her photo; maybe tributing her photo myself and showing her a movie of that; perhaps even confessing and showing her the secret filming that I'd done of her in the loo; and, still paramount, the burning urge to get a photo of Mum's boobs which I'd so enjoyed seeing in the flesh earlier in the year. I considered (still do consider) these all realistic, achievable ambitions all centred on satisfying an otherwise unrealistic and unachievable craving to actually fuck Mum, a craving so intense that I can honestly say I've never felt anything like it before for any woman, I've never wanted anyone more. My absolute hunger for her has grown so strong over the past few months that she occupies my every waking thought. I wank about her almost every day; even when I fuck my wife I imagine it's Mum and last week I became more sure than ever that there was no woman on Earth I'd rather screw than my Mum. I'd just emptied my umpteenth load of cum into one of her stockings that I'd had for a few days and I still wanted more, still wanted something of her, not just her scent or clothing. That's when I decided I just had to push her again to let me take that photo. Because of her severe arthritic condition Mum has to have periodic checks with a consultant rheumatologist. She can't drive (never learned) and a taxi fare is massive from where she lives to the hospital concerned so I generally drive her whenever I'm able. Her most recent check was last week and I dutifully arrived at her house at the appointed hour. As ever she was waiting, coat on and as I opened her garden gate I watched as her frail frame picked her way across the rugged garden path, wrapped tight against a strong wind. She was certainly looking old today, slightly hunched and for a few moments I found it hard to believe that only the night before I had been at the height of ecstasy as I masturbated about her. We exchanged pleasantries and a quick peck of a kiss and I ushered her into the car, closing the passenger door behind her. Our conversation was banal, harmless and she told me of various things she'd like to do on the way home after the hospital appointment - if I had time? With luck on my side for once I had ample time - indeed, my wife was going to be away overnight so I effectively had over 24 hours where nobody was accounting for me. As Mum had walked down the path her long coat had obscured all but her calves so there was definitely no leg show at that point but now she had hitched up her skirt and stretched out her legs into the foot well I saw that she was wearing delicious golden honey coloured tights (she wouldn't wear stockings to see a doctor), more expensive and sheer looking than her usual milky tan. Naturally I still couldn't see above her knee but it was an enticing picture and I quickly regained the belief I'd enjoyed the previous night. Mum never wears high heels these days, simply not her style and she usually wears flat, sometimes laced, brogue-type shoes - very severe. Today she had on low heeled brown court shoes with a gold buckle at one side of each - I'd known them for years but not seen her wear them for almost as long and I said as much. "Easier to take off slip-ons when they examine me" she explained and we fell back to inane chat until we arrived in the hospital car park. Sometimes I accompany her in to see the consultant if she needs help asking for or explaining about something more assertively than her character allows - I asked if I should stay in the car or go with her and was quite pleased that she wanted company on this occasion - quite childish pleasure really. Mum's consultation passed without incident except at one point when she had to take off her shoes and balance on each leg alternately. Seeing her stockinged feet in the golden nylon gave me a raging hard-on almost instantly - again quite juvenile I suppose. I had to stoop slightly as I stood to leave in order to disguise the lump in my trousers - I'm not so well endowed but this was a full-on erection and I could feel I was leaking! We set off for her house, stopping and running the few errands she'd mentioned but then got stuck in traffic on the motorway for ages so by the time we got to Mum's house it was mid-afternoon and we were both hot (the car's heater had been on too high), thirsty and Mum urgently needed the loo. I offered to put on the kettle while she went upstairs to the bathroom and she kicked off her shoes and sat on the stair lift, wriggling her toes as it started to climb. As soon as Mum was upstairs I picked up her shoes. I've never been a foot or shoe-fetishist but the leather was still warm from her hours of wear and I had an urge to feel inside. The lining was still warm, clammy rather than damp and my fingertip dragged against the surface as I tried to feel the indentations made by Mum's bony feet. Older people tend not to perspire in the same way as younger and the scent is certainly less - the fragrance from Mum's shoes enchanted me, combining the smell of good leather with that of her nylon-clad feet and I buried my nose in one, trying to lick the instep but my tongue was too short. I licked my finger and realised I was hard for the second time that day, both times as a result of Mum's feet. Of course I've a thing for stockings but feet generally turn me off (especially bare ones) but it seemed my lust for Mum was so great that any intimacy was enjoyable. By the time she came back to the kitchen I'd put her shoes in the hall cupboard (she thanked me - I wanted to thank her) and had made the tea. She'd put on slippers, flat, open toed mules in a plush, raspberry smoothie colour, quite incongruous with her drab grey pleated skirt, grey cardigan and pale green blouse but I didn't care, I could still follow the seductive curve of the arch of her foot and see through the thicker nylon of the reinforced toe of her luscious golden tights - perhaps I should have asked for a photo of her feet and gone home satisfied! The rest of the afternoon passed without great incident. Mum seemed subdued but then frequently is. I nevertheless resolved to raise the subject of a photo only if she perked up - I didn't fancy her looking back at me too miserably every time I jerk off over her picture. It grew dark and we dined on fish and chips from town. Mum ate little and ordinarily I would have finished hers too but my own appetite was muted by my nervous tension. I was sure she recognised something was amiss but was too wrapped up in her own mood to say anything to me. In my selfish way I was fairly pissed off too. I'd worked hard at being charming all day, had been a dutiful son and my wife was away giving me carte blanche to take advantage of my mother for as long as it took. Yet here she was being grumpy and miserable, further reducing my chances of persuading her to show me her boobs again. As I say, selfish, sorry but sex is a powerful driver. As we stood washing up the plates I glanced at my watch and then it hit me, the date, the anniversary of my Dad's death –no wonder she was upset, I'd not even mentioned it. He'd died twelve years prior but she'd never got over his loss and anniversaries such as this or his birthday or Christmas seemed all the more poignant. "I'm sorry Mum" I said and she gave a weak smile, eyes now giving way to tears but not actually crying, "It's the 9th isn't it?" She nodded and looked down at the floor, I could tell the tears were now falling and I took the tea towel from her and put my arms around her bird-like frame. She felt vulnerable in my arms, not sobbing, quite quiet in fact but fragile from emotion as well as her infirmity. I hugged her a bit tighter, pulled away and kissed her cheek before looking into her eyes, like moist saucers. I leant forward and kissed her on the mouth – we have always done this, nothing sexual about it. And yet, in the split second my lips pressed against hers I felt swept away by desire, all powerful as my physique dwarfed hers, my confidence washing over her dependence and trust as I again put my arms around her waist. I parted my lips and pushed my tongue between hers, feeling her teeth against its tip. She recoiled a little but, unsure of my intention she didn't pull away, I suspect for fear of offending me. It was now or never and I pressed my tongue harder between her lips, her uneven lower teeth dropping and allowing me into her mouth, albeit involuntarily. She tried to speak but I held her closer to me and continued searching for her tongue with mine. The sensation was so erotic, I'd felt nothing like it before and as I discovered her soft tongue and teased it into response I could feel my erection pressing hard against Mum's stomach. She can have been in no doubt about my intentions now but she didn't resist. Rather she began to kiss properly, our tongues entwining and saliva smearing outside our mouths. How long was it since she had kissed like this? At least twelve years, probably longer – in fact I didn't imagine she and Dad went in for passionate snogging much after I was born, even as part of their love making. I know now and could tell at the time that Mum's response to my kissing was not from arousal or desire; she instead just needed the intimacy of an embrace with someone she loved and full and passionate kissing was no more than an exaggerated extension of that, diluting her loneliness and deadening the pain of her long departed husband's passing. But to me it was everything, at that moment better than sex. And in the way that I suppose the client of a prostitute temporarily ignores the knowledge that he's paying for the attention I too disregarded what I knew to be motivating Mum, instead allowing myself to pretend that she was mine to fuck. We kissed long and vigorously but not hard. She didn't venture her tongue into my mouth but danced with mine in hers, my cock still pressed against her. I wanted to touch her and knew if we stopped kissing then the chance would be lost so I raised a hand from her waist and cupped the side of her breast, deliberately grazing my thumb over where I imagined her nipple would be but feeling nothing, other than lust. Her tongue hesitated, she was again unsure whether my action was conscious or coincidence but when I squeezed her bosom so hard that she could be in no doubt she tried to pull away and I let her. "No Richard, it's not right!" she said, barely able to meet my gaze, her chin and one cheek shiny with our combined salivation. "But it's good Mum" I whined "It's making you feel better and I like it..." I tailed off, somewhat feebly but took hold of her again, trying to resume the kiss, my heart pounding, but she turned her head away and down. I pleaded but didn't stop my pursuit, gently wrestling her toward the Welsh dresser, trying to kiss her again - I genuinely wanted to feel Mum's small soft tongue in my mouth. She tried everything to persuade me to stop - saying the kitchen light was on and the curtains a little apart, someone might see, that sort of thing but I was almost out of control and forced myself up against her, slowly pushing her back against the dresser and pressing my mouth against her narrow lips. Although she didn't resist she didn't kiss with the same enthusiasm as before, only allowing me to push my tongue against her teeth but no further. Holding her against me with my arm round her waist, still trying to kiss her, I started to unbutton Mum's blouse. Usually she wears a bra-slip but today there was no sign, presumably because it would've been more to take off had they wanted to examine her more closely. Much the same as her shoes, Mum's inability to easily and quickly manipulate her own clothing meant that I had a bonus - sexier footwear and now no need to get her blouse right off in order to free her tits! She squirmed and protested, obviously aware of what I was doing but I just took the opportunity to slip my tongue back inside her lovely mouth, yanked her blouse open and slid a bra strap from one shoulder, so soft and warm, so shapely and smooth I was nearly cumming on the spot. I stood back and gathered myself. I had become out of breath with the effort and of course unable to breathe through my mouth while it was crushed against Mum's. "Richard... please?" she asked, looking a little forlorn, her clothing dishevelled and wanting me to stop. Even though she still had her cardigan on top, Mum's boobs were poking out through her now open blouse, encased in white, crisp lace-topped cups, only the upper slope of her bosom uncovered as it joined her breastbone, the colour of her nipples obscured by her bra but nonetheless visible in shape (Mum pokies!) through each cup. Although the main part of the bra was conventional, even pretty, the shoulder straps were strange - broad, too wide, almost ugly. No matter, it just sticks with me. In the scheme of things there were better things to look at. I said something like "Just let me do this Mum" and slid my hand, palm inwards into the looser cup where I had slid down the strap and for the first time since shortly after my birth I held Mum's breast, skin-to-skin, her nipple pressing into the middle of my hand. She bent down, trying to writhe the breast out of my grasp. "Richard!" she protested, but I had too firm a grip and all she succeeded in doing was to pull the cup away from herself, exposing her full, plump little boob to my gaze. Every inch was already etched on my memory from the previous time I had seen them naked but I drank in the sight thirstily as we sprang apart, both shocked by what had happened. "There now!" Mum chided – whether she was saying to look what I'd done in a scolding way or to suggest that ought to be enough to satisfy me I couldn't tell. Either way I did look but it wasn't enough. Her pink nipple was darker than I remembered, somehow reflecting Mum's own anger; erect, pert – almost indignant at having been rough handled then ripped from its hammock – her areola pitted with small points amidst the pink wrinkles. "Please can I take a picture?" I pleaded. She hesitated. My mind raced, my cock throbbed, it was soaked. Before she had chance to speak I pulled the other breast free – this didn't hang freely like its pair but was squashed upwards by the cup beneath it, the nipple pointing up in a grotesque fashion. It clearly hurt and Mum shouted, pulling the cup away to ease her pain, but unintentionally increasing my pleasure as both her perfect tits swung before me, one pointy nipple, one flat but marked like a carpet burn where I had wrenched her bra down. I pulled her to me, squashing her breasts against my lower chest and kissed the top of her head. Of course I couldn't see her boobs any more but I just wanted her touch so badly, to feel her pressed on me. I wanted her. I kissed the top of her head and she let me hold her still, the lesser of two evils perhaps. She was panting from exertion, her rising and falling breath making her nipples rub against me - they both felt quite hard, I felt elated, an almost drug-like ecstasy. My cock was pressing just above Mum's upper thigh. I pressed harder, enjoying the sensation, it was almost like thrusting into her for real. I reached down, between her legs and hauled up her skirt, getting tangled in her petticoat beneath. I looked down and caught sight of Mum's stockinged toes peeping out of her slipper. So pretty, so horny even when so much more was going on but another random image sticks with me – the seam of the reinforced nylon on one of Mum's feet followed her toes perfectly, like it was meant to, whereas the other had twisted and the reinforcing ran up rather than across her foot, revealing some of her toes more clearly through the thinner honey coloured nylon. In my excitement this minor disarray seemed almost slutty and I liked it. I pulled again at her skirt and petticoat, hauling them up to her waist to reveal the waistband of her tights, large pink knickers visible beneath the golden nylon sheen. She squirmed to try and prevent me but it was token resistance; either she didn't have the strength or the inclination. She certainly said nothing as I stood back and pulled down her tights to her knees, her boobs swaying before me, both nipples now hardened to brittle peaks, pointing at me in angry accusation. I crushed one breast in my hand, pinching its nipple between the crook of my thumb and forefinger perhaps a bit too hard. She cried out. Mum's tits looked round and firm but when squeezed they felt quite empty and soft, except for those hard nips that maintained all their female vitality. Looking at the soft pink cotton of Mum's knickers I could just make out the triangle of pubic hair behind, making the pink seem darker. The elastic waist was still just below her navel and the gusset still fully in place at Mum's crotch. I wanted to be inside. With urgency like I had never felt before I unfastened my belt and pulled my trousers apart, reaching inside and freeing my erect cock, a line of pre-cum swinging from its end onto Mum's now bare thigh. "No Richie, please!" she panted but I wasn't sure she meant it and, to tell the truth, I don't think I would have stopped even had I been certain. I pulled her to me, her hard nipples pressed against my lower chest as I guided my erection towards her crotch. I felt her knickers against my helmet, the hairs beneath quite coarse but softened by the fine silky cotton. Taking hold of myself with one hand I used the tip of my cock to pull the elasticated leg of Mum's knickers away from her soft, withered thigh and then pushed it inside the underwear, onto their gusset immediately below her cunt. My foreskin still covered my dick but only just, straining to roll back as my erection swelled like never before. I could feel Mum's cunt lips dragging along the top of my shaft, as though kissing it, while her knickers felt cold and slimy at the gusset - partly my pre-cum but partly her. I don't pretend she was turned-on, it could have been fear or simply a weak bladder but she was certainly wet down there.