6 comments/ 57516 views/ 18 favorites Mommy's Favorite Valentine is Me By: SuperHeroRalph This is a Valentine's Day contest story. Please vote. * Mother and son have a special relationship that transcends incest. Today is Valentine's Day, my birthday and a special day for not only me but also for the love of my life, my mother. As a special, personal gift, my Mom celebrates my birthday by giving me whatever I want sexually. A fantasy that so many men have of having sex with their mothers, in reality, I have sex with my mother nearly every day. Most other men and women, for that matter, wouldn't understand, but that's their problem. They'd think what we did behind closed doors was nasty. Yet, maybe after you read this story and learn the details of our lives, you'll have a different opinion of us. "What would you like me to do this year for your birthday, Valentine?" "Let's do something different. Let's do some roll playing. We can drive to a bar out of town and pretend you're someone's wife. I'll pick you up and buy you a few drinks. Then, we can dance on the dance floor, and with everyone watching, while I can touch you in places they'd love to touch you. Later, I'll bring you home and we'll have hot sex, as if we're having it for the first time. I'll call you Marsha and you can call me Steve." "I like that idea. That sounds like fun. Should I dress as a hooker or as a housewife?" I knew my Mom would be up for the challenge. She's still young at heart. We do the same for her birthday, too, playing out whatever sexual fantasy she wants to experience. She's a Gemini, June 4th and I'm an Aquarius, besides being mother and son, astrologically, we're compatible. For my 21st birthday, when she asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I asked for a blowjob. I like blowjobs, especially those from my mother. Actually, I never had a blowjob from anyone else but Mom. "Just a blowjob? That's all you want Mommy to do for you for your birthday, Valentine, your twenty-first birthday? Today, my son is officially a man," she said hugging me and kissing me. "Yeah, not only just a blowjob, I want a slow blowjob. I want you to make love to my cock," I said. "I want you to look up at me, while you sucking my cock so that I can see my cock in your mouth." "Okay, I can do that," she said with a smile. She blew me three times that day and each blowjob lasted nearly an hour with her teasing me, licking me, sucking me, and stroking me, while delaying the climatic final moment, where I unloaded everything I had in her mouth three times and she swallowed every time. Only, because it was Valentine's Day, my day to give myself to my mother, I couldn't just get away with her giving me a blowjob. I had to take care of her, too. So, after I made love to her, after I gave her an orgasm with my mouth and with my cock, I made myself comfortable in bed in readiness to receive my birthday gift, a slow blowjob from my mother. With her 40th birthday approaching, I'm going to have to do something special, whatever she wants, anything she wants me to do to make her 40th birthday a special day. Since we don't have a lot of money and can't afford to buy one another expensive gifts, we only make enough to scrape by, our birthday gifts to one another are always something sexual, some sort of sexual fantasy. Living life together in the way we sexually experience one another is as if we're newlyweds, only more than that and much better than that. Being that we're mother and son, we know one another so well that the sex we have is better than I imagine it would be with anyone else. Not knowing that for sure, because I've never had sex with any other woman other than my mother, I don't want to have sex with anyone else. I'd never cheat on her. I love my mother. Our sexual antics started when I was 18-years-old and my mother was 35-years-old and it took us two years, before we finally had sex. Looking back now, afraid to cross the incestuous line, we wasted two years. With me always horny and her sexually frustrated, gradually, our teasing and flirting with voyeurism and exhibitionism, finally erupted that fateful day when we finally had incestuous sex. A point of no return, now that we crossed that bridge, three years ago, ever since my 20th birthday, my Mom celebrates my birthday by giving herself to me. Since my birthday falls on Valentine's Day, with her giving herself to me, I celebrate Valentine's Day by giving myself to her. It's a special day for both of us, where we spend most of our day in bed making out and making love. Nothing was taboo and as if we were husband and wife, we did everything and in every position. Most mothers and sons who have an incestuous relationship have sex once that is clumsy, awkward, uncomfortable, and embarrassing. The fantasy before the actual sexual act is always more erotic than the actual physical act. Not so with us. We're different, in the regard that, our first sexual experience was more of a love affair than it was a thing of incestuous lust. Yeah, sure, I suppose one could say that, because I was only 20-years-old when we had intercourse and started flirting and teasing, when I was only 18-years-old, my Mom took advantage of me, but I was old enough to know better. I knew what I was doing then, just as a 23-year-old man, I know what I'm doing now. So long as we both agree to making love and remain faithful in our committed relationship, I don't see anything wrong with having sex with my mother. Because I was born on Valentine's Day, twenty-three-years ago, my Mom named me Valentine. That's my name, just Valentine. Weird to some, but I've grown to like it. If it's anything, it's different. If ever I become famous, if ever I become a star, I'll already have the name, Valentine, just like Cher, Madonna, and Liberace, just Valentine. "Whenever I say your name, instead of thinking about the bad that surrounded the circumstances of your birth, I think about the good. I think about Valentine's Day and I think about love. I'm so glad I gave you that name," my Mom said to me with a warm smile. "I think about how lucky I am to have you in my life, my one and only, my favorite Valentine," she said giving me a hug and a kiss. "Thanks, Mom," I said returning her kiss. She always made me feel special, whenever she said that. Even though I like my name, I'm grateful she didn't give me a first name of Happy. I had enough problems with the neighborhood kids in school, which is what they called me anyway, Happy Valentine or just Happy, even though I wasn't so happy, but sad, with them chasing me home from school nearly every day. With no bullying laws back then, I somehow managed to survive. The hospital staff pressured her to give me a last name, as they pressed her to give them the father's name. Yet, because she was raped and brutalized, gangbanged by multiple men, without having a DNA test and a paternity suit, she didn't know who the father was. Rather than ruin the happy day of my birth by digging up what happened to her nearly nine months before, I suspect she preferred not knowing who fathered her baby. She could have given me her last name, but she hated her father, as much as she hated her sexual assaulters, her Dad's drunken friends. At the time, she lived with her Dad and the rape happened when she was made to serve them drinks during a televised, professional wrestling match that turned out to be an impromptu, sexual wrestling match. They raped her, while her father watched and even participated. For all she knows, he may be my father. That's so weird. He's since died in a drunken car accident, when his car hit a pole and he went through the windshield. So, officially, my birth certificate reads, Baby Boy Valentine. I guess, I could have gone by the name Baby Boy, or Baby, or just Boy, in the way that Tarzan referred to his son. Yet, later in life, what kind of name would Baby Boy, Baby, or Boy be for a grown man? I'm glad it's just Valentine. If the neighborhood kids knew that Baby Boy was on my birth certificate and listed as my first name, there'd be no stop to their teasing. Inasmuch as they called Babe Ruth, Babe, the name Valentine evokes the memory of Rudolph Valentino and that famous fashion designer, Valentino. When Eddie Murphy played that character Valentine in that Wall Street spoof of a movie Trading Places, I wouldn't mind having the street smarts of the character he played. Back then, my Mom loved Eddie Murphy and her favorite movie was Trading Places, and the name of his character inspired my name, no doubt. She told me that she had no intention of naming me Valentine, but because I was two weeks premature and born on Valentine's Day, an early Valentine gift, having not, yet, decided upon a name, she said my name was kismet. When the doctor asked her what she was going to name me, she thought of her favorite movie, her favorite actor, Eddie Murphy playing the character Valentine, and because it was Valentine's Day, fated to happen, it was my destiny to have that name. I've grown to be proud of my name. I never met anyone else with the same name, as I've come across so many Johns, Joes, and Bobs. My name makes me feel different and uniquely special. Yet, when it comes to my mother, I think my name evokes me having a big heart because she's always hugging me, kissing me, and touching me, not in a sexual way, just in a motherly way. When I think back how it all started, it all started off so innocently. Now, it's more of a love affair than it is us having incestuous sex. I don't even think of her as my Mom, but more as my wife or sexy girlfriend. It was different back then, than it is now. When she became pregnant with me at only 16-years-old, not as much a religious choice, as it was a personal choice for her, she couldn't give me up for adoption or have me aborted. Thank God. "I always play the cards dealt to me," she said happy that she was teaching me a life lesson and she was. "I would have always regretted my decision to abort your fetus. You've been the best thing in my life," she said. Her words made me accept who I am as a person, instead of what I didn't have. I always believed that if I was dealt a shitty hand that, instead of throwing my cards away and not even playing the game, I could bluff, which is what I learned to do and did. I bluffed, or in my case, lied my way through life hoping not to be discovered. I learned, as I progressed in life, sometimes through osmosis, and I became an expert at bluffing and lying. Eventually, with my street education complete, when I learned all that I needed to know to survive, I no longer had to bluff and/or lie. Still, lying and bluffing are skills that never left me and I still call upon them from time to time. I lied about my education to get a better job. I lied about where I lived, so as not to be buttonholed as being poor, uneducated, and/or lazy. I lied about what I knew and what I didn't know. Fortunately, I had the intelligence to fake what I didn't know, while learning what I needed to know quickly, without anyone ever suspecting that I was a phony and a fraud. Unless my competitor has a lot of money that he or she can afford to lose, I don't advice playing poker with me. Now that I know how to play the game, poker, as well as life, expert at both, no one can tell when I'm bluffing or lying. With my lying and bluffing in mind, one could extrapolate and make the leap that I'm lying about loving my mother, in the way that a man loves a woman, as opposed to how a son loves his mother, by bluffing myself into believing what we have is love, instead of nasty incest, but it's not. We have the real thing and I love her, as much as she loves me. I hope we stay together for the rest of our lives. Even though it's a bittersweet memory, because of the unfortunate circumstances of my birth, with my Mom having me out of wedlock, my Mom's favorite day, of course, is Valentine's Day, my birthday. Still, the fact that I didn't have a last name, didn't escape my classmates. I was always teased and, just as they wondered about the absence of my Dad, the kids wondered about the absence of my last name. They always speculated the worst scenario and most times they guessed right but, by bluffing and/or lying, I always showed my outrage to throw them off track. There's that ability to bluff and lie, again, coming in handy, whenever I needed it the most, not to mention that I needed to be a good actor to make them believe that all that I said was true. Growing up with a dark cloud over my head, I didn't want anyone to know that I was a bastard baby, a baby born out of rape, hate, and violence. With just the bad karma of the details of my birth following me through life, if I dwelled on the negative way in how my life began, my life would have been worse than it was. I didn't want anyone to know that I never knew my father. Instead, I told them my Dad was in jail for murder and, figuring like father like son, that gave me some street credibility with the neighborhood thugs. I wished, instead, that I was born out of a marriage that was filled with love, kindness, and caring. Regardless of how my life started, my life got better, as I grew older and I have to thank my Mom for that. My Mom was always there for me. She was my rock, when I was in a soft spot with my emotions and she was my pillow, when I was having a hard time. As it was always just my Mom and me, we grew closer. Even though we developed a special bond that a mother should never have with her son, it wasn't like that with us. It was different for us. Our symbiotic relationship worked well with us. We were a match and the right fit physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Without doubt, if it wasn't for her love helping me through life, because of the bad neighborhood we lived it, I'd either be dead or in jail. One another's number one fans, we were our support team. With no family and no friends, it was just us. Protective of one another and always there for one another, our lives could have been so much worse. How many people have a true, best friend, someone they can totally trust and depend upon, someone who would willingly and without hesitation give their life for them? In the way we watched out for one another's backs, it was comforting to know we weren't alone. I was her son, her best friend, and her lover and she was my mother, my best friend, and my lover. To each their own, whatever floats your boat, once we closed our bedroom door, so long as we didn't flaunt our incestuous relationship out in the open for public speculation, gossip, rumor, innuendo, discussion, and/or shocked rejection, we didn't see anything wrong with our living arrangement. In whatever way a mother shows her love for her son and a son returns her love in kind, it was none of anyone's business what we did behind closed doors. Fuck them. There was no one there for us and no one to help us through our lives but ourselves, when we needed the help the most. Walk in our shoes, before you dare judge us. If we found some shared comfort sexually in one another's bodies, that's a beautiful thing, no matter where we found it. When we finally moved to a better neighborhood, in the way that people don't even know who lives next door to them today, no one even knew we were mother and son. That was when, instead of calling her Mom, I started calling her Christine. My Mom looked young enough and I looked old enough that we could have been husband and wife or boyfriend and girlfriend for all anyone knew. Besides, it was no one's business, if we were husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, significant other to one another, or mother and son. As far as we were concerned, we were just two disenfranchised people trying to make it through life, as best as we could and in whatever way we knew how. The fact that we had sex is only wrong, when someone who doesn't understand the love we have and share for one another labels it and puts a negative name to it, incest, a word that connotes how we lived was wrong and what we did behind closed doors was nasty. Only, we didn't see it that way. We saw our relationship as beautiful, caring, and loving. We saw it as two people who came together under extraordinarily difficult circumstances of living life alone, her without a husband and me without a dad, joining forces to live as a supportive couple. To make it through our days, we had to take on more than one role to survive. Even then, with one helping the other, our lives weren't all honey and roses. For a while, before my Mom got some training to get a better job and earned enough money to support us and saved up enough money to move to a better neighborhood, there was a dark side with hunger and homelessness. Before the dawn of another day, there was a scary night of pain, suffering, and anxiety, before a new day dawned that gave us hope for a better life. With my Mom being a survivor of sexual abuse and her making her way through a perverted mother's love for her son and a son's lust for his mother, our relationship was doomed from the start and easily could have soured and failed. Instead our love for one another blossomed. Fortunately for us, our relationship not only survived but also grew stronger, and we're still together as a couple, even after all these years. Easily my Mom could have done to me what was done to her, sexually abused and used me, but it was never like that. Having respect for one another, right from the beginning, we had more of a loving relationship than we did a sexual one. Yeah, sure, eventually, there was plenty of sex but, whenever we had sex it was more out of love than it was out of lust. Now, that I'm 23-years-old and she turns 40-years-old this year, just as any normal couple does, we've reached a point in our incestuous relationship where we need to do more to sexually stimulate and excite one another. Maybe because, even though it is, we don't think of it as incest, but it's weird that even incestuous sex isn't enough, after having sex for a while. After years of teasing, flirting, flaunting, and sexually satisfying one another, my Mom decided that she'd like to try flashing in public, while I watched. Hey, it was her birthday and if that's what she wanted to do, we did it. Since I'm a voyeur, it was just as much a present for me, as it was for her. I thought it would be hot to have some sexy fun with my Mom at the mall and whenever we were out in public that day of her 40th birthday. So long as we were discreet, so long as we made it appear accidental, whatever we did during the day, fueled our passion with hot pillow talk that night. I had the best sex with my Mom, after she sexually aroused herself by flashing her body. The first flashing thing we did is what so many couples do. My Mom flashed the pizza delivery man. I double dared her to do it and that's all it took for her to agree. We ordered her favorite pizza for lunch, a Hawaiian with extra pineapple. We watched as he pulled up in his car. He was a college kid. With me out of the sight of the pizza guy at the door, I watched my Mom answer the door just wearing a short towel that barely covered her boobs and her pussy. As soon as she handed him the money with one hand, while reaching for the pizza with her other hand and trying to hold the towel with her forearms, the towel fell and she was naked. Even though it was only a few seconds, before she squatted down and retrieved the towel, while still holding the pizza in one hand and trying to cover her nakedness with the other, it was hot and we had great pillow talk and wild sex after that. Probably the best tip he had that day, he never took his eyes of my Mom's big boobs. After lunch, we headed off to the mall. Doubly exciting, it's one thing to go flashing with your girlfriend or wife but it's something else to go flashing with your mother. Our next flashing adventure was the shoe store, where she tried on a pair of boots a size too small. She was wearing a short skirt that climbed higher the more the shoe store salesman struggled to fit her foot in the boot. Raising and spreading her leg high enough for him to fit her foot, while giving a good look of her bright, white panties, I watched all the action through the window outside the store. Mommy's Favorite Valentine is Me Now the normal thing for a shoe salesman to do, when struggling to fit a foot, is to check her shoe size, but he didn't. Content to open her legs wider with his wrestling to fit her foot, he was more intent on seeing my mom's panties than sizing her foot to fit. With every movement of my Mom's leg, with every gradual upward movement of her short skirt, he got to see more of her panty. I imagine that some women who flash the shoe store salesman aren't even wearing panties. My Mom was agreeable to flashing her panties, but not her pussy. Just because she has incestuous sex with her son doesn't make her a whore. Besides, she thought it would be more subtly erotic for her to wear bright, white panties and she was right. Watching her flashing her panties was making me excited. I can only imagine how excited the shoe salesman was. It was so hot watching my mother expose her panties to the shoe store salesman. He never removed his eyes from my Mom's crotch and she played the modesty and the sexually inhibited game, by holding a hand on her skirt and adjusting it down, whenever it climbed too high to be accidental. Yet, after a while, in a desperate try to get her foot to squeeze in the too small boot, she cast away her modesty and inhibitions and lifted her leg higher and wider to give the lucky man a good view of her bright, white, cotton panties, along with her camel toe. Because it was her special day, her 40th birthday, we stayed overnight in a hotel and had room service. She decided that she wanted to flash the waiter. She walked out of the bathroom totally naked with her head down, while fixing her hair beneath a towel, just after the waiter wheeled in our food order. He must see this a hundred times but this was the first time for us to do something like this and it was so hot. Timed perfectly, with my back to my Mom, I watched her and the waiter in the mirror. The waiter never took his eyes of my Mom and my Mom pretended he wasn't even there. Then, when she finally noticed that she wasn't alone, as if she was a deer caught in a car's headlights, she didn't move. She didn't try to cover herself, she just let out a little gasp, before she reacted and ran back in the bathroom and slamming the door. That was so hot. Pretending she was embarrassed was masterful. If I didn't know it was all staged, I would have thought it accidental, too. The waiter had a good, long look of her tits, ass, and pussy. He saw everything. "You're a lucky man to have a beautiful woman like that," said the waiter laughing and giving me a wink. When I told my mother what he said, that made her day. As a rite of sexual passage, she wanted to experience all the sexual things now that she should have done growing up as a young, single woman, but never did because she was a single mom caring for me. Watching her flash other men is as much fun for me, as it is for her. I'm all for this new sexuality. It's hot when my Mom shows her body in the way that she first started flashing me, so long ago. Of course, my favorite flashes of my Mom that day was when she tried on clothes in a department store that still has curtains in their dressing rooms. Leaving the curtain open just enough to give the bored boyfriend and or husband a sexy striptease show, while looking straight ahead at herself in the mirror, she pretended that she was oblivious to those men watching her, as she undressed and dressed. Watching the reaction of the men staring and trying not to be noticed and/or caught looking at her standing there in her bikini panties and bra was priceless. It's also very erotic for me to watch her undress and dress knowing that the man or men standing outside the curtain can see what I can see, too. In the car on the way home and again later that night during pillow talk before, during, and after we had sex, I told my Mom all that the men could see of her. If it wasn't enough to have her flash, it was even hotter to talk about her flashing. On the way to the hotel from the mall, she flashed truckers her tits on the highway. She even flashed a tollbooth attendant her panties in the car. Before this day of flashing, as a prelude that led up to this day, she told me that she's worn short, flared skirts on a windy day and had a whole line of men walking behind her staring at her panties. Then, another time, while wearing a low cut top and a short skirt, she's sat on buses and trains with her knees parted just enough to give the man sitting across from her a view of her panty and the man standing over her a view down her blouse. My Mom is so playful and I'm glad she's so uninhibited and not afraid to flash her body. So open and honest about our sexuality, the pillow talk and the sex we have afterward is incredible. Accustomed to having sex with my mother, now that I'm older, was more of a big deal, when it all first started and when I was so much younger and inexperienced. This story is about how our incestuous relationship started, progressed, and developed to a love affair that is worthy of having a Happy Valentine's Day with her favorite Valentine, me. A totally normal reaction of my sexual development, my first memory of how it all began was when I was 18-years-old and sexually maturing. Horny from hormones, I was fixated on seeing bits and pieces of my Mom's anatomy for fuel to masturbate over later. I was always masturbating then, as much as five times a day, never less than twice a day. Filled with testosterone, I was a regular cum machine. Because it was just my Mom and me, I had plenty of opportunities to see what I shouldn't be seeing of my Mom's body to satisfy my lustful needs of voyeurism. Relaxed and comfortable in her own apartment, she wasn't as careful with her attire, as she should have been around me. Thinking that I was the one that was the pervert, I always assumed her flashing me was accidental, but now I know better. Still a sexual woman, she had needs, too, and was as horny as I was. Knowing that I was always looking to see, she had slowly been trying to seduce me by teasing me in exposing parts of her body to me. Just as I was trying to voyeur her to masturbate later over what I saw, she was exposing her body to me, so that she could masturbate later over what I saw of her, too. New at the games that women play, so innocent and naive, I had no idea. After I saw enough of her to make me excited, I'd self-abuse myself with constant masturbation, while thinking about touching and having sex with my mother. Hoping she'd never catch me looking, how would she know that I was always trying to voyeur her? I was always discreet, sneaky would be more the word. I'd be so embarrassed, if she knew I lusted over her, just as I'd be so embarrassed if she caught me masturbating over the semi-naked and naked thoughts of her. Then, on those days that I was so horny and so out of my mind with lust for my mother, when I needed more peeks of my Mom's body to replace the same old ones that I tired of masturbating to, I'd accidentally on purpose walk in on her, while she was changing or while she was in the bathroom showering. I remember being so nervous but with a feverish excitement, I couldn't stop myself from going through with it. Hoping to catch her, occasionally, I'd catch her with her nightgown over her head or, on the rare occasion, just stepping out of the shower naked. Seeing my Mom naked made me want to rush to her and hold her, kiss her, touch her, and feel her, but I only did that in my sexual fantasies of her, while masturbating. Our coming together was a slow progression and it took two years to finally reach the satisfying sexual plateau of where we are now. In retrospect with all the videos that are on the Internet now, if they had personal computers and the Internet then in the way they have now, maybe my fixation over seeing my Mom naked would have been relieved and relaxed by me masturbating over Internet videos of others, instead of needing voyeuristic peeks of her. Back then, all I had was a dog eared copy of Playboy and Penthouse magazines found in my neighbor's trash. After a while, just as I tired of masturbating over the same Penthouse and Playboy photos, I tired of masturbating over the same images of my Mom. It was more exciting to masturbate over something new, such as seeing my Mom's panties in an up skirt view or the side of her breast through an unbuttoned button or a down blouse view. My Mom was only 17-years older than me. A big age difference when I was younger, suddenly wasn't such as big of an age difference now that I was older. Transgressing from her being my Mom, to her being my older sister, to her being my best friend and confidant, and then lover, took two long, sexually frustrating years to accomplish but, with both of us wanting and needing the same thing, our passion was soon realize in an incestuous mother and son sexual relationship. In hindsight, we wouldn't have had the same long-term love connection that we now enjoy, had our relationship exploded in the way of us just having hot, sweaty, regrettable and embarrassingly awkward sex one day. Building our flames of passion more slowly, over years, with all the teasing that preceded our love affair, it took us longer to get to that point. When we did finally get together, it was more tender and loving than it was perverse and incestuous. No longer to be denied, the love we felt for one another made the sex so much better. My favorite memories of my Mom was when she'd walk around the apartment in just her sheer nightgown. For sure, there was nothing sexy about her nightgown, other than the fact that she was wearing it and that my Mom didn't wear panties to bed. My Mom has a nice little body, a body like Susan Sarandon had, when she starred in that movie, Atlantic City with Burt Lancaster, before I was even born. When I finally saw that movie on TV, I thought I died and went to Heaven. I imagined it was my mother in that movie standing at the kitchen window topless and washing off the fish smell with lemons she received from working all day in a fish market, while inadvertently flashing her tits to me, instead of to Burt Lancaster. When all the other lights in the house were off, the fact that my Mom's nightgown became virtually see through, when she opened the refrigerator door and leaned inside was so exciting. Imagining they were hanging in my face, I loved seeing her tits hanging down when she leaned over like that in the refrigerator. Imagining her naked, that view of her never failed to arouse me and I'd have a fantasy of lifting her nightgown up from behind and doing her doggie style, while she asked me what I wanted for breakfast. I can't tell you how many times I masturbated over that fantasy. Staring at her, as if I suddenly had X-ray vision, I saw the round outline of her breasts hanging down, a raised tuff of pubic hair, and her ass crack, when she turned to me slightly. Just as I can't tell you how many times I masturbated over the thoughts of having sex with my Mom, I can't tell you how many times I masturbated over that image of her leaning in the refrigerator like that. A time that I was wild with hormones, coincided with the time my Mom was reaching her sexual peak. The other oblivious view she gave me was the one where she opens the drapes in a darkened room in the way an emcee would open a stage curtain. The bright light from the sun illuminated her and made her thin nightgown totally transparent, as if she was naked. Wow. Again, my fantasy of coming up from behind her and reaching around her to feel her big tits and finger her nipples, while rubbing my growing erection against her nightgown clad ass always gave me an erection. As I grew older, I always wondered if she knew that I could see her body, when she leaned in the fridge and when she stood in front of a brightly lit window. Now comfortable enough with her to ask her anything, it was something that I needed to know. Finally, after our relationship developed into a sexual one, I asked her, while putting my question more as a statement. "I like it when the kitchen light is off and you open the refrigerator door and lean inside, while wearing your nightgown." "Why?" "Because your nightgown becomes virtually transparent in that light." "It does? Really?" I still couldn't tell if she knew of if she was playing along with me. "The same thing happens to your nightgown, when you open the drapes every morning." "Seriously? You can see everything, as if I'm standing there naked?" "Everything, Mom." "And did that make my Valentine excited?" She reached over and gave my cock a squeeze and instantly, I had an erection. "Are you kidding me, Mom? I masturbated over the image of you leaning in the refrigerator and standing in front of the living room windows for years." "So, you enjoyed Mommy giving you a show of her tits, ass, and pussy?" She left her hand there, while rubbing my growing erection. "I did and sometimes, when the only light in the living room was from the TV, and when you stood in front of the television in your nightgown to change the channel, I could see through your nightgown." "Well, that explains why you were always walking around with an erection." "You knew I had an erection?" "Val?" She cocked her head, while looking at me incredulously. "How could I not know you had an erection? It was obvious. I have needs, feelings, and sexual desires, too, you know. Not to be crass about it but, before I started having sex with you, it had been a long time since Mommy had a cock in her hand, in her pussy, and in her mouth." "Gees, Mom," I said with a laugh, while imagining my mother with three men and with a cock in her hand, one in her pussy, and one in her mouth. "You're making me horny." "Sorry, Valentine," she said removing her hand from my cock, "but it's time you know that your mother gets horny, too," she said with a laugh. "Maybe not as horny as you, though," she said with another laugh. "You're the horn ball in the family. "Did you ever masturbate over me?" "I did sometimes, when I was in the bathtub, but not nearly as much as I imagine you masturbated over me," she said with a laugh. "Guys are different than women. Guys are more visual and women more emotional. All it takes to make a guy horny is for them to see a bra strap," she said with a laugh. "Women need much more than that to get in the mood for romance and for sex." "Like this," I said fingering her nipple through her nightgown, before raising the hem of it and fingering her pussy. She was already wet and I could tell she wanted my cock. She wanted me to make love to her, again. Yet, I'm jumping way ahead of myself. We didn't have such open sexual conversations, until much later in our relationship; it took us two years to reach that point, before so openly discussing masturbation. My fondest memories of my Mom was my birthdays on Valentine's Day. Even during the tough times, when we had very little money, she always made my birthday a special occasion. Since I'm 6'2" tall, comparatively speaking, my Mom is a little bit of a thing, barely 5'4" and because she's so short, her tits appear so much bigger. She has big tits, anyway, but her C cup would look smaller and more, normal on a much taller woman. I checked her bra size and she's a 34C. Every morning she weighs herself and if she's a pound over 120 pounds, she diets the whole week. I think she's skinny albeit curvy but, a typical woman, she thinks she's fat. "I was always 100 pounds in high school," she likes to say. Every time she mentions high school, she suddenly looks so sad because she didn't graduate. She became pregnant in her senior year. It was different back then, when she was going to school. Good girls didn't get pregnant, if they weren't married, and good girls didn't attend high school, when they were pregnant. My favorite times spent with my Mom were sitting on the couch together, sharing a bowl of popcorn, while watching a movie. We are both total movie buffs and sometimes, during a chick flick, I could feel her getting just as horny as I was getting aroused. It always electrified me, when she sat close enough that parts of her body were in contact with mine, such as her hip or thigh. I imagined my hand touching her, where no son should ever touch his mother. It always amazed me how much of her breast I could feel with my forearm and, whenever she leaned forward, I'd leave my arm there, so her breasts would rest where I imagined my hand was, instead of my forearm. Always, I sat on the left side of her, so that if one of her buttons came undone or sagged open, I could see what I needed to see of my Mom to masturbate over later. I can't tell you how many up skirts, down blouses, panties and bras that I saw of my Mom. It was a rare treat to see more of her breast or a hint of her pubic hair, but always I was looking. Fortunately for me, because she was so casual and oblivious in her attire, she was always showing. As my voyeurism and her exhibitionism continued and developed, I'd sit on the couch wearing just pajama bottoms without underwear and a tee shirt. She'd wear her short, low cut nightgown. It was a happy occasion for me when she replaced all her old, long, flannel nightgowns with short, sexy low cut nightgowns. Replacing her long flannel nightgowns with short sexy ones, may have been the turning point for our incestuous relationship. Finally, I was seeing more of what I wanted and needed to see, without having to wait for her to open the refrigerator door or stand in front of the window to open the blinds. As the movie progressed and she moved around changing positions to get more comfortable, her nightgown would climb higher. I knew she wasn't wearing panties and just the thought that her naked pussy was only inches away from my horny hand drove me wild with incestuous thoughts about my mother. Sitting there with her knees spread apart or one leg tucked beneath the other, oblivious to my surveillance of her, or so I thought, I could always tell when she wasn't wearing panties because there was no panty line. I'd always drop something, so that I could bend forward to pick it up, while hoping to serendipitously see up my mother's nightgown. With just the light from the TV, all that I saw was what I imagined seeing. Still, it was enough for me to masturbate over later. Sometimes, she'd have a blanket on her lap and with the both of us under the blanket, we'd cuddle. Knowing that the wool blanket would cause her skirt to rise higher, I always adjusted the blanket for that reason. I was always able to feel more of her, whenever we sat beneath the blanket. I loved resting my hand on her thigh and she'd rest her hand on my stomach. It felt so good when she leaned into me and allowed me to put my arm around her. Sometimes, she'd fall asleep with her head on my lap and her fingers coming in contact with the very top of my cock and that always immediately became an erection. With the blanket across her lap, whenever she got up to go to the bathroom or to get something to eat or drink, her nightgown was always momentarily up to the top of her thighs. More than once I saw her pussy and that always gave me an erection. Having never eaten a woman, I fantasized about falling between my Mom's legs and licking her, touching pussy, finger fucking her, and playing with her clit. Of course, my first priority would be to stare at and touch her pussy, as I've never seen a pussy up close. Whenever we sat on the couch cuddling, I'd have my arm around her, while massaging her shoulder and/or her back, my excuse to touch her, and she'd lean into me. Now, with her so close to me and leaning with her nightgown top falling open, I had a clear view down her nightgown of her cleavage and the top of her breasts. I so wanted to reach my hand down my mother's nightgown and feel her breasts, while fingering her nipples. I just loved her big tits. Mommy's Favorite Valentine is Me She'd rest her hand on my stomach and I always wished she move her hand lower and touch my penis. The thought of her hand around my cock made me insane with desire for my mother. If only she'd masturbate me. Oh, my God. I just wanted her to touch me. Valentine's Day, my birthday, was our big celebration day and, once I was just a year away from drinking age, she'd buy a bottle of cheap champagne and we'd celebrate, while doing our favorite thing, watching a movie. With me dressed in my favorite outfit, pajama bottoms without underwear and a tee shirt and my mom wearing her sheer, short, low cut nightgown, it was always exciting to sit next to one another on the couch, while drinking, talking, laughing, and watching a movie. Without doubt, in this scenario, we were destined to have incestuous sex. With my arm around my Mom, the more she drank the lower her hand fell, until the bottom of her hand was in contact with the head of my cock. Whenever I leaned forward to get my glass of champagne from the coffee table in front of me and with my Mom not moving her hand away, her entire hand came in contact with my cock. Was she purposely touching me, as I wanted to touch her? I always wondered if she knew she was touching my cock. Now I know she did know and was purposely driving me crazy by teasing me. Only, what I didn't know at the time was that she wanted me, as much as I wanted her. The slightest touch of her hand on my cock gave me an erection. Then, once I had an erection, my cock would involuntarily pulsate against her hand. Eventually, I had control enough of my cock that I could make it pulsate at will and I did. It was exciting for me to pulsate my cock against my Mom's hand and I did that whenever we sat like that, which was happening more often. Until one evening, it escalated. I was so hard. I was so horny. I'd do anything for my mom just to wrap her hand around my cock, while I felt her tits. Only, I knew it would never happen, but I couldn't control my cock from pulsating against her hand. She was making me wild with lust. "Val, what do you have a frog in your pajama bottom," she said grabbing my cock through my pajamas. I couldn't believe my Mom grabbed my cock. I couldn't believe my Mom was holding my cock through my pajama bottoms. Her hand felt so good. Did I make her as horny as I was aroused by my cock pulsating like that? Is that why she suddenly grabbed me? Now, if only she'd stroke me, it would be my fantasy come true. "Mom!" Embarrassed and excited, this was a first, my mother grabbing my cock through my pajamas. I so wanted to grab her tits. I couldn't wait to masturbate. "You have an erection," she said looking down at her hand. "Sorry, Mom," I said looking down at her hand, too, while wishing she'd reach in my pajama bottom pee hole, pull out my cock, and stroke me. "Did I do that to you?" Duh, I wanted to say, but didn't. "Yes." "How?" "I don't know, Mom, just being next to you gets me excited. It doesn't take much. I'm horny. I'm always horny." "Mommy's boy is becoming a man," she said leaving her hand flat on my cock and not moving it. The warmth of her hand felt so good on my cock, as if it belonged there. I couldn't believe it, when she didn't move her hand away. Instantly a rush of feelings flooded my mind. I was embarrassed. I was excited. I was so unbelievably horny, as horny as I've ever been. For the first time, even though I had masturbated over the thoughts of having seen her and have imagined her naked, while having sex with her, now, I really wanted her. Stunned and shocked, I still couldn't believe she didn't move her hand away from my cock. We continued watching the movie and I could feel her fingers moving ever so slightly, while lightly fondling my cock. Her slight, light touch of her fingertips was so erotic. As if I had taken a Viagra, I had a constant erection. Tit for tat, on in this case, tit for cock, since she was taking liberties with me, I started taking liberties with her. I moved my hand from her shoulder to her side, so that the tips of my fingers were in contact with the side of her C cup breast. Wow, for the first time, I was feeling my Mom's tit with the tips of my fingers, instead of with my forearm, while she was still fondling my cock. "You don't feel fat to me, Mom," I said using that as an excuse to feel more of her, the entire length of her side from under her arm down to her hip. "Thank you, Val," she said looking down at her hand again, before looking up at me with her pretty hazel eyes. "You don't mind me touching you, do you like this, do you?" "No," I said. What I really wanted to say was, are you kidding me? I love it when you touch my cock, Mom. Pull it out, stroke me, blow me, and fuck me, but I didn't. "I know it's wrong for me to touch you like this, but it's comforting for me to feel you in this way. It's been so long since I felt a cock in my hand," she said moving her fingers a little more. I couldn't believe she said the word cock and when she did, my cock pulsated and actually moved her hand up and down. "You're making me so horny Mom. If you weren't my mother," I said breathlessly, "I'd ask you to give me a hand job." I couldn't believe I said that and when I did there was an uncomfortable silence. I saw her look down at her hand again, before looking up at me, as if trying to read me. "Would you like for me to give you a hand job for your birthday, Val?" She continued gently rubbing and lightly fondling my cock through my pajama bottoms and I knew it was now or never. The point of no return, should we, could we, would we? "Oh, my God, Mom," I said suddenly feeling as if I was going to have a heart attack. I so wanted to say, yes, I'd love for you to give me a hand job for my birthday, Mom, but instead I blurted, "That's incest." Such a dumb fuck, I couldn't believe I said that, instead of telling her how I really felt. I didn't know what I was saying. My mother was making me wild with incestuous lust. With her still hand on my cock fondling me and touching me ever so lightly, was that my green light. I moved my hand and reached around more from the side of her to the front of her and, now, with my fingertips more in contact a third of her breast, my cock started to pulsate again. "I don't consider what we're doing as incest or incestuous. I consider it as a mother giving pleasure to her son. I consider it as just an act of love." "Sorry, Mom, I didn't mean...I'm just confused." "I don't mind if you feel my breast, Val," she said looking down at where my fingertips were in contact with her breast. Go ahead," she said. "Just don't touch my nipple. My nipples are very sensitive and if you were to finger my nipple, I just might do something we'd both regret." Oh my God. After asking me if I just wanted her to give me a hand job for my birthday, my mother just said that it was okay to feel her breast. I couldn't believe it. I was going to feel my Mom's tits. My brain was on fire. Her breast was the first breast I ever felt. Being so young and so inexperienced, I didn't know if what she said was a green light and I should start fingering her nipples, since she said not to touch her nipples or she might do something we'd both regret, or if that was a yellow light and I should slowly proceed with caution, or if that was a red light and I should stop. I just couldn't stop thinking about her giving me a hand job. I decided to take it as a flashing yellow light. Ever so slowly, gradually, I felt more of her breast through her nightgown, while she fondled my cock. As soon as I started feeling her breast, she started grabbing more the whole length of me now. Instead of her fondling me, in the way she moved her hand ever so slowly, she started touching me more firmly. I could so imagine her giving me a hand job. Her tit felt incredible, so big and so firm. Still way up there, not sagging at all, my Mom had incredible knockers. My Mom's hand felt so good on my cock. Even though she was feeling me through my pajamas, it was the most erotic thing I've ever felt. I so wanted more. I so wanted her to pull out my cock and stroke me. I should have said yes to the hand job, but I was embarrassed. I wish my cock would just pop out of my pajama bottoms. I wanted her to see my cock and to look at my cock, while she held it in her hand and while I watched her looking at my cock and stroking me. The more she felt me, the more I felt her, until my fingertips felt her nipple and, as soon as I touched her nipple, her nipple became as hard and as erect as my cock. When I touched her nipple, she gasp and she opened her hand to rub the full length of my cock. All consuming, the more I caressed and squeezed her breast, while fingering her nipple, the thought of seeing my mother's tits excited me. I had seen flashes of her naked a few times, once in her bedroom changing, when I abruptly opened her bedroom door and she had her nightgown over her head, but it was just a flash. I saw her naked another time, when I quickly opened the bathroom door on the pretense that I had to pee badly, just as she stepped from the shower naked. Then, hoping to see her naked, there was a few times when she slept naked with her bedroom door open in the summer time and I woke up early, just as the sun came up, to spy on her. Lightly, ever so slightly, I fingered her nipple and, when I did, I heard her lightly gasp again. Each time I touched her nipple, I felt her quiver. My Mom's nipples were, without doubt, one of her G spots. I continued slowly and ever so lightly tracing her nipple with my fingertip. The more I felt her tit and fingered her nipple the more she moved her hand the full length of my cock and fingered the head of my stiff prick. "You have a nice body, Mom. I love your tits." I couldn't believe I was talking to my mother in this way. "How would you know, Val, you've never seen me naked," she said looking up at me, "have you?" "I saw you naked, accidentally, a few times," I said, suddenly feeling embarrassed and feeling like the pervert that I am because I was so consumed with the images of my mother naked. "You did? When?" "You were in the bedroom changing out of your nightgown and I opened your bedroom door to tell you something." "Oh, yeah, I remember that," she said. "I was like a deer caught in headlights and you were just standing there staring, until I told you to get out and knock the next time," she said looking at me. "So what did you see?" "What did I see? I saw everything, Mom," I said with a little self-satisfied smile. "Everything? What do you mean by everything? "You know, Mom, I saw your tits and your pussy," I said suddenly feeling as embarrassed again, as I was excited. "There was another time, when I opened the bathroom door because I had to pee really bad, just as you stepped out of the shower." "I forgot about that," she said with a laugh. "And all those times you slept naked during those hot summer days. When I got up early to pee--" "Yeah, I know, you were peeping to see what you could see," she said with a laugh. "Sorry, Mom. It's the hormones." "So did it excite you to see your old mother naked?" "Mom, are you kidding me? You're hot. You're a MILF." It just fell out of my mouth. I couldn't believe I just called my Mom a MILF. When I called her a MILF, she grabbed my cock with more force and I suspected she knew what it was by her reaction. "MILF? What's that?" Now I was more embarrassed than I was excited. "Sorry, Mom, I didn't mean to call you that," I said feeling like such a little pervert. "Call me what? What's a MILF. C'mon, tell me. I won't be mad at you, Val." I was trapped now. I had to tell her. "It means it's a mother, I'd like to fuck." Feeling my face turn a bright red, I was so embarrassed. I just admitted that I wanted to fuck my mother. "So, you want to fuck me," she said with a laugh, while still fondling my cock. "You want to have sex with your mother, is that it? You want to stick your big, hard cock in my soft, wet pussy," she said giving my cock a hard squeeze that made me feel that it was buried in her pussy. Oh, my God, she was driving me crazy with the dirty pillow talk. "Gees, Mom, when you put it that way, you're making me crazy with lust for you," I said looking at her and looking away, when she made solid eye contact with me. "I don't know, Mom. I've never been with a girl before," I said in a small voice. "Surely, you've kissed a girl." "I have," I said. "Made out with one?" "Not really," I said embarrassed that I was so backward. "Felt up a girl." "No," I said embarrassed again, while hoping she didn't think me gay. "Not until now," I said fondling her breast. "You've never felt a woman's breast?" "Not until feeling your breast, Mom." "Do you like feeling Mommy's breast, Val?" "Are you kidding me, Mom," I said taking that as invite to really grope her tit and I did. "You never had sex with a girl." "Nope," I said. With her feeling my erection and me feeling her breast and lighting fingering her nipple, we sat like that without talking. "I can show you," she said finally. "What do you mean? Show me what?" She was the nervous one now. I could tell she was nervous. Her face was flushed. If she was playing poker, I'd know she had a good hand and wasn't bluffing. Yet, we weren't playing poker. We were about to play a much life altering game, the game of incest. We were both exploring uncharted ground and crossing a bridge of no return. "I can teach you, so that it's not so terribly awkward for you, when you finally find someone that you like enough to want to make love." "You mean have sex, Mom? You'd have sex with me?" She stopped fondling my cock and I stopped fingering her nipple, while we gazed into one another's eyes. I don't remember if I kissed her, of if she kissed me, or if we kissed each other at the same time, but we kissed. Then, with that first kiss opening the flood gates, we were making out, French kissing, and really going at it. I was feeling my Mom's tits for real now and she already had removed my cock from my pajama bottom and was slowly stroking me. When I looked down, my cock was in my mother's hand. As if I was still connected to her with an umbilical cord, she was holding on to my cock. It was something that I needed to see, so that if nothing else happened, I could masturbate over seeing my cock in my Mom's hand. I watched her staring at my cock. Slowly she was stroking me and the pressure she put to my cock with her hand was perfect. I reached down and pushed the blanket aside. Watching it fall to the floor, I pushed up my Mom's nightgown and she opened her legs enough to give me my first real view of her pussy. I saw my Mom's pussy. It was right there for me to see and touch. I couldn't believe it. I had the green light all the way. I touched her where no son should ever touch his mother. My first pussy, she had a wild bush, untrimmed, and I imagined my tongue wetting her forest of pubic hair. Only, before I had another thought, my Mom slowly lowered herself and fell across my lap. I gasped when she took my cock in her mouth. Oh, my God. My first blowjob and it was my mother giving it to me. Happy birthday to me. I don't know how many times I fantasized of this moment, while masturbating with the thoughts of my mother sucking my cock, but this was the most incredible day of my life. I was having sex with my mother for real and my Mom was blowing me. This was the best birthday I ever had. I was so inexperienced and so horny that I exploded in my mother's mouth after only a few minutes. I figured she'd pull away, but she remained there still sucking and licking me, until all of my cum was in her mouth and down her throat. Way better than masturbating, never have I experienced anything like that before. After my Mom blew me, there was no more pretense and no more games. That next evening we had intercourse. My first time having intercourse, it was appropriate that it'd be with my Mom, since she gave me my first hand job and blowjob. Shortly after, I ate her pussy and she blew me again. Now, as if we were a married couple, we were having daily sex. Only, most married couples don't have sex every day. Maybe because it was our incestuous relationship, maybe because I was so much younger and we were both at our sexual peaks at the same time, but we were both hot for one another. We sleep in the same bed, now. No longer having the need to masturbate, I just roll over and have sex with my Mom. With my erection poking her in the ass, I love spooning her, just as much as I love when she spoons me. A day didn't go by, when I wasn't touching and feeling her body, while kissing her and a day didn't go by that she didn't fondle my cock. We even showered together a few times. As if I was on my Honeymoon, this is how I envisioned married life being, only it was better because it was with my Mom, the woman I truly loved. Now that we are living in a different neighborhood, a place where no one knows us, we don't have to hide our relationship. With her looking ten years younger and me looking ten years older, no one would ever know we were mother and son. I grew a mustache to look older and, because she's so petite and still has the body to get away with it, she wears short skirts and tight clothes to make herself look younger. I don't feel guilty about what we did and neither does she. We love one another and hope to be together to experience more Happy Valentine's Days. * Please don't forget to vote, make a comment, and/or add me and this story to your favorite lists. Thank you for reading my story.