Love for my mom

This Story is part of Lust for my mother Series

This is a new story called “Love for my mom” let’s begin…. How do you even reconcile that? A young woman, just barely nineteen years of age, in lust and love…with her own mother! You can’t. At least I couldn’t. And because I couldn’t, I couldn’t say, do, or tell anyone. It had remained a deep dark secret for years.

And the funny part? I knew I wasn’t a lesbian, not in the sense that I had desires for other women, I honestly didn’t. Not really anyway. Sure, I had wondered what it might be like with a few girls…but I had wondered the same about several boys too, one or two of which I had dated and allowed certain liberties with.

It wasn’t until I had turned eighteen that I’d even lost my virginity, well over a year ago now, and had only slept with one other boy since then. And no girls…no girls whatsoever. But like I said, it wasn’t women I was really interested in. Just one. And that one I could do nothing about anyway. Not ever.

Every time I even masturbated, I went back in time. That was always how my fantasies started out, whenever I was thinking about mom…”Mila” as I sometimes even called her whenever we went out together. It had become a bit of a running joke between us, that eventually took hold. Mom looked far younger than her 37 years, so much so, very often people thought we were sisters. Both of us with dark brown hair falling well past our shoulders.

Each with hazel colored eyes, similar builds even though I knew mom had slightly larger breasts than I did, though not by much. We even wore the same clothes at times, an inch within height of one another at around five foot eight or so. And even some we met and knew, said we sounded just alike over the phone even.

I rather liked the idea of that, and eventually…so did mom. So outside of the house, if I called her Mila instead of mom, or mother…she’d smile, share a secret laugh with me, and usually tease me back in some way, usually referring to me as her “older sister.” Though that one was usually a bit hard to swallow. Still, it pleased me to no end whenever she said or did anything like that.

But I remember how my desire for her had come about as though it really was yesterday. Mom and dad had gotten divorced when I was very young. A year later he was killed in an automobile accident, so I didn’t have much of a recollection of him at all aside from a few rare photos mom had kept, mainly because of me being in them. Beyond that, not much else. I did recall going to dad’s funeral, not even sure I looked at him. But what I did remember was sitting in mom’s lap, crying perhaps because she was, even though they were divorced.

I think she still loved him, and even missed him a little bit. And perhaps more now because of his death. Wanting to comfort her perhaps in some small way, I sat in her lap, hugging her as she hugged me back. And by accident, because it was, I remember just reaching out to hold onto her, holding onto something, and inadvertently found my hand clasping her breast. She allowed it, only for a moment or two, but then shifted in her seat, removing my hand away from her. Perhaps it was too obvious, especially sitting where we were, there in the church.

But I waited just a bit, and then put it back, once again just holding, softly, not moving. She again allowed it, or ignored it, or perhaps simply enjoyed the intimate needful contact of two grieving souls. Whatever the reason, we stayed like this for a lot longer, before she finally made me move my hand away from her once more.

I didn’t try it again, not that day anyway. But later the next day at home when we again just cuddled on the couch, grieving, remembering…comforting one another. I again reached up simply to embrace, to hold, and again came into contact with her breast, only now resting my head upon it as though it were a pillow. I think I actually fell asleep like that. My head on her breast, the other holding and cupping it just like it was a comforting pillow to me. I don’t remember her taking my hand away from it that time.

Over the years, especially when I finally discovered the joys of masturbation, that distant memory of doing that would come racing back. But interestingly enough, each time that it did, each year that I grew, that image of me sitting there, holding mom like that, had me at whatever age I currently was at. Not as that of the little girl I certainly once was back then.

I never failed to have multiple orgasms thinking about that, fantasizing. But I also never failed to have the worst guilt ever afterwards either. It had gotten to the point that I fought against the urge to even do so, eventually relenting of course after days and days of wrestling with myself.

I would purposely imagine boys I had gotten to like, or even thought about. I’d also found, or rather stolen, a dirty magazine I had once discovered at a friend’s house, using that as the source to stimulate my pleasure. But inevitably, after the initial thoughts, the pictures, photos or whatever, my thoughts always returned to once again sitting on my mother’s lap. Only then could I climax. It was a never-ending struggle.

After high school, and yet having enough money to further my education, I started hanging around mom, or rather she’d actually invited me to do so. Learn the trade, see if it was something I’d eventually be interested in doing. She’d done fairly well as a realtor, making enough at least to pay the bills, though not much more than that, certainly not enough to likewise put me through school. I’d have to do most of that myself. Which was again the reason for finding some sort of job in the meantime, possibly getting my license, and perhaps even working with mom at some point.

An idea I didn’t exactly disapprove of. The more time I could spend with her, and around her, the happier I was. But it was almost equally frustrating too. Fantasies, images, wicked erotic thoughts about my own mother, dominated almost every waking moment of my day.

It was a catch 22.

And then the most amazing thing happened that basically changed my entire life!


I had always wondered why mom never got remarried again, though selfishly grateful that she hadn’t. It wasn’t like she’d suddenly become celibate either, I knew better than that. She had dated, still did…though not nearly as so often as she once had years ago. I’d caught her on the phone talking to my aunt, her sister Stella more than once. Giggles, whispered words, some of which I’d heard and picked up on a time or two whenever I’d managed to eavesdrop on their conversations.

The moment I walked in wherever she was however, the conversation immediately turned to the weather or some aspect of her job, even though I knew better. I liked my Aunt Stella, she looked a lot like mom too, just a bit older perhaps, and therefore a little like me as well. I hate to say it, but she could have easily passed for “our” mom.

Whatever the reason, she never brought any guys home, and rarely…rarely ever spent the entire night out. I think she did that maybe three times at the most. Usually it would be late, yes, coming home well after midnight. But she always came home, always stood in the doorway checking on me after sending the baby-sitter home when I was still too young to stay by myself. And then later, even when I was older, having Aunt Stella keep me company then instead.

Like I said, I liked my Aunt Stella too, she allowed me a glass of wine here and there whenever she’d come over. She and I would very often watch a steamy movie together, filled with lots of simulated sex, (nothing hard core…or porn if you will) but it still got my mind going, and juices flowing between my legs nevertheless. And yeah, admittedly, I had indeed fantasized about my Aunt Stella once or twice too, though usually after watching her change clothes if I happened to be sitting in the same room with her when she did that.

Normal stuff maybe, she had a nice body too. But it almost didn’t matter with whatever mom wore. A hint here or there, the way she wore a dress or a pair of jeans. A low cut blouse, sometimes a tee with no bra. The moment anything like that happened, I could be standing there, images of me sitting on her lap again. And away we would go.

But I digress. Like I said, it was an interesting, eye-opening day for me, that completely changed my life.

I had actually been invited to go out to the movies with a girlfriend on a particular Saturday afternoon. I knew that mom and Aunt Stella were going out shopping later, and then home later to share dinner together, and with me too of course, after the movie was over. I was even looking forward to that.

I headed out to meet my girlfriend at the theater, arriving and then waiting for her at the ticket counter when she called me on my cell phone. Her car had broken down on the way there, so she wasn’t going to make it. I asked her if she needed a ride or anything, but she informed me her dad was already on his way. Slightly disappointed at not seeing the movie with her,

Love for my mom will continue on the next page

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