Ben and His Widowed Stepmother

Ben and His Widowed Stepmother

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Young Ben's stepmother catches him spying on her as she bathes.

Summary

Young Ben's stepmother catches him spying on her as she bathes.

Content

Submitted: October 23, 2012

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: October 23, 2012

A A A

A A A


Ben and His Widowed Stepmother

Note to readers: this is my first attempt to write from a man's perspective. I'd be interested in hearing from both men and women on how successful they think I've been.

Thanks,

Janet

My mother gave me up for adoption at birth. I was lucky: there was a couple waiting to take me. From as early as I can remember, I knew that I was adopted and that my parents weren’t my mother and father: they were Gregory and Juliette. They weren’t my parents because they had to be. They were my parents because they wanted to be. I was chosen, and I grew up secure and happy as Ben, Gregory and Juliette’s only child. They were not “like” parents to me. They were my parents. Period. They chose to worship me from before I was born and once I was, I couldn’t but worship them back.

When I was eight I was in a bad accident. My right side was horribly cut up. Juliette all but lived at the hospital during the months of recovery. I would wake in the night from terrible dreams inflamed by the drugs and pain and trauma, and only she could calm me. There was only one time when I needed her and she wasn’t there, and I went mad until she arrived. I remember that. Screaming. My mind gone. But she came, as she always had and always would. Three years later, Gregory died of lung cancer and I tried to be there for Juliette as she was there for me and together we got through that, too.

The first orgasm I ever had happened like this. I was 12, in eighth grade, and it was a school night. Juliette was taking her nightly shower in the upstairs bathroom and I was downstairs watching TV. The bathroom had no window and the fan wasn’t able to keep up with the humidity, so the bathroom door was often left open a crack when we bathed or showered. It had been that way since forever.

When the show on TV ended, it was my signal for bedtime and I went upstairs. The hall was dark, but I didn’t bother turning on the light. The door to my room was in the middle of the hallway, on the left. The door to the bathroom was at the end of the hallway, on the right. As I approached my room, there was movement in the bathroom that caught my attention. Maybe the door was open a bit wider than usual. More likely, it was puberty torturing me with its omnipresent sense of the opposite sex.

I stood in the doorway to my room, but I didn’t turn on the light. I knew Juliette wouldn’t be able to see me in the dark as long as I stayed out of the line of brightness cast by the bathroom light onto the hallway wall. That tells me I knew from the start that what I was doing was wrong.

What I was doing was watching Juliette, naked, fresh from the shower, rubbing moisturizing lotion on herself. I couldn’t see much of her and only from the side, but by moving my head a little this way and that I was able to keep one of her breasts in sight.

It wasn’t Juliette I was watching - I knew that - it was a naked woman. At the age I was, boys live in a state of constant low level sexual arousal, never more than a thought away from an erection. And this - an actual naked breast, nipple and all, being massaged with lotion: I could no more look away than I could plunge knives into my eyes. When men first learn that Islamists get virgin boys to be suicide bombers by promising them they will wake up to their own personal harem of virgin girls, we totally understand how that works.

If I was 12, Juliette was 45. I’d never thought of her as beautiful or sexy. Just never thought of her in that way at all. But now I was 12 and I could see her big, hanging breast and it was beautiful and arousing and I desired her down to my core.

Juliette finished what she was doing and stepped back, out of sight. I nearly panicked at the thought of being caught at what I was doing. I scuttled into my bedroom, turned on the light and shut the door behind me. As the latch clicked I heard the bathroom door open, then Juliette’s few steps to her bedroom across the hall from mine, then her door closing.

As soon as I was safe, all I wanted to do was recall the image of Juliette’s breast now stored in my adolescent brain, floating in its sea of hormones. I stripped to my underwear and climbed into bed. I lay on my back, my hands crossed on my chest, and imagined what it would be like to suck on Juliette’s brown nipples, to squeeze her breasts in my hands. Before too long I had the urge to roll onto my stomach. And when I did, I laid my loins down last, sliding my stiff penis on the mattress.

That was all it took. The most intense pleasure I had ever known, a pleasure unlike anything I had ever even suspected, exploded inside me. My body convulsed and for a moment I thought I was being damaged. And then it was gone, rippling off into the ether even as it withdrew back to where it came from, and I was left, cock throbbing, in orgasm’s pulsing wake.

Juliette’s nightly shower became the best thing in my life. Without thinking about it, I found myself looking for ways to repay her for the pleasure she brought me. I did household chores without having to be told or asked. I added laundry and ironing to the list and started doing simple cooking. One night, watching a movie with her on the couch, she mentioned that her feet were tired, as she sometimes did, and I offered to rub them. She was so pleased. She went upstairs and brought back the bottle of lotion she had been using on her breasts, the first time I violated her privacy. She lay her feet on my lap and we watched Law & Order as I massaged them. Being able to give her pleasure with my touch soothed me as much it soothed her, and we made foot rubs a habit from then on. On Valentines Day, I brought her flowers and candy. And more nights than not, I would spy on her and then masturbate to my images of her nakedness. I knew I was a pervert, but I was unable to stop. The guilt was enormous.

By the time I was 14, my social life was a mess. I’d started high school and had many names, none of them of my choosing; Frankenstein (Frankie for short, which wasn’t terrible), Scarface, Leatherface and on and on. Girls flat out told me that if I ever touched them with my right hand, the one missing its little finger, they would scream, which made asking one to dance impossible. But I didn’t care. I had a girlfriend; she just didn’t know it.

Then it happened.

One night I came home unexpectedly - some school activity and been cancelled at the last minute. The house was quiet except for the sound of the shower running upstairs. I was quick and quiet.

Juliette was standing at the sink, watching herself in the mirror as she dried off, her pale Dutch skin pink from the hot water. I was in my usual position, lurking in the doorway to my dark room, the hallway light off. She finished drying and I was about to scurry away. But she didn’t step back, out of sight, the way she normally did when she was ready to hang up the towel and put on her bathrobe. She let the towel fall from her hand and I could tell she was staring at her reflection. Several seconds passed. Then she took in a long, deep breath, released it in a long, soft sigh, placed her hands on the counter and slumped; head down, her weight on her hands. Even at 14, I could tell she had just lost some internal struggle.

Her center of balance was far enough forward that her breasts hung free. It was how I liked them best and got to see them least. After a moment she shifted her weight, reluctantly, it seemed to me, and took her far hand off the counter. She cupped a 47 year old breast, her fingers spread wide. Her tit overflowed her hand and she began to knead herself purposefully. She straightened up, took her near hand off the counter and kneaded both breasts, rocking gently on her heels and whispering moans.

I was having trouble breathing. It was my first time seeing Juliette be sexual and it was far more than my fantasies coming true. The change in her was a revelation, and a little frightening: this proper, modest, middle age woman pawing herself for sexual pleasure, as wanton and hungry as sick little me.

She was feeling her nipples now, pinching them lightly then harder and then pulling on them and shaking her big tits in wonderful waves of flesh. I was wearing drawstring pants with an elasticized waist. Without conscious thought I pulled the bow out of the drawstring, slipped my hand inside the waistband and began rubbing the underside of my cock with my open palm.

Juliette slid her hand below her near breast, leaving the erect nipple in perfect profile. I watched her hand slide down her ribs and over her belly and down, out of sight. The thought of what she was going to do was almost more than I could bear. She opened her legs a step, turning slightly in my direction as she did so, and I could see her pussy. Through the crack in the door I mostly saw her from the side and had only occasionally glimpsed the center of her womanhood. But now I saw her plainly. She pressed her fingers into her thick, mysterious, blond triangle. With no effort, the fingers slipped inside until I could not see them at all.

I shut my eyes and froze my hand, afraid to move. I couldn’t cum out here.

It must have only taken her a second. She must have climaxed as soon as she touched her clitoris. The door opened, flooding the hallway with light. Juliette stepped out, her bathrobe on but open. I was caught. Juliette stared at me and I stared back. She pulled her robe closed. I pulled my hand out of my pants and burst into tears. It was the first time I’d cried since Gregory’s casket started lowering into its grave,

I spun around, sobbing, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” and went inside my room. I slammed the door closed and left the light off. I just leaned my back against the door and wailed at the top of my lungs, over and over and over, that I was sorry.

No words were spoken from the hallway and I eventually wound down. I didn’t know if Juliette was still outside my door, but I couldn’t imagine that she was. In the dark, I stepped over to my bed, lay down, pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs. The only mother I’d ever had knew that I was a pervert. I wanted to die for shame and was praying that my heart would just stop. Time passed. When a floor board creaked outside the door, my heart did stop. But when she said my name, her voice soft and full of worry, it started back up.

“Ben?” she said. “Ben? I think you can hear me, Ben. I’m going to come in. We need to talk.”

“No,” I begged. “I’m a pervert. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” And the sobs returned.

The door opened. Ambient light in the hallway made a silhouette of her, shapeless in her robe, her arms crossed somewhere in the featureless shadow. I moaned and with a jerk rolled onto my opposite side without unwrapping my arms from my legs; turning my back to her, facing the dark rather than facing her. The door closed and the dark deepened.

The mattress dipped from the weight of her as she sat on the edge of my bed. Her hand found my shoulder. I held myself tighter, trying to be smaller.

She told me it was alright. I wasn’t a pervert. What we’d done was perfectly natural. But when she said, “I was doing it, too, wasn’t I?” it was too much.

“But you weren’t watching me when you did it,” I said, slapping her with my sin. She was blameless. I was sick.

“No, I wasn’t watching you; that's true,” she said. “And you should have turned away. But you’re a 14 year old boy. What you did is normal, it’s not perverted in the least.”

She lay down beside me. She put her arm around my arms, which were around my legs, and helped me hold my knees to my chest, keeping me from coming undone.

I had to get it all out. I told her the horrible truth: “I’ve been spying on you since I was 12.”

All she said was, “Shhhh.”

We lay like that for a long time. My sobs came and went and when they came she stroked my hair, like when I was little, and said, “Hush,” and when they were gone she said, “You’re fine, sweetheart,” and, “There’s nothing wrong with you,” and, “Puberty is a confusing time for everybody.”

And after a long time of being spooned in Juliette’s arms, I let go of my knees, straightened my legs and said, “At least you’re not my real mother.” She didn’t respond right away and just when I thought she wasn’t going to, she did.

“At least there’s that,” she said. Then she hugged me and got out of my bed and went to hers.

In the morning Icouldn’t even look at her. Juliette, on the other hand, went about her routine as if the previous night had never happened and chattered as if I, too, were acting normal. We went on like that for a few uncomfortable days. I spent most of my time in my room or otherwise avoiding her; she continued to act as if things between us were as they had always been. Her only change was that she no longer left the bathroom door open a crack when she showered.

It was Twin Peaks night. We never missed an episode and we always shared a bowl of popcorn. I was in my room. I heard the popping and soon smelled the popcorn and the melting butter with a dollop of bacon fat and I thought of Twin Peaks for the first time in days. I guess my shame was receding, or my loneliness growing, because I stopped what I was doing, went downstairs and sat in my usual spot on the couch. The TV was on, the volume muted.

When Juliette came into the dining room from the kitchen and saw me waiting, she stopped. For a moment we were still, me sitting in the living room, her standing next to the dining room table, an aluminum bowl of popcorn in her hands. She had already showered and was wearing her blue pajamas with pants and a shirt top, like men’s pajamas but softer. Her thick blond hair, shot with gray, hung loose, freshly brushed. She took a breath before continuing to the couch. Her spot was the corner nearest the kitchen. My spot was on the cushion next to hers. The thought crossed my mind that this was too intimate, that I should be in the opposite corner, a cushion between us. But this was where I had watched TV with her since I was able to sit up. So I stayed where I was.

Juliette sat beside me, the popcorn bowl on her lap. Her hand took mine and she squeezed it hard, staring at the TV, for a long time. When she finally relaxed her grip she turned to me and, when I was looking her in the eye, said, “Hi,” and I said it back. Then I reached over for a handful of buttery popcorn. She put her hand over mine as I was filling it. She turned her body to me a quarter turn, holding my hand in the bowl, and I felt her lap move with the turn.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

I gently tried to pull my hand back. She resisted and I yielded.

“Do we have to?”

“I think so. Nothing bad.”

I looked at the TV. Twin Peaks was starting. I bargained: “Afterwards?”

She glanced at the screen and back to me, smiled the warm, soft smile that meant everything to me, picked up the remote, cancelled the mute and settled back, her hips cozying against mine.

We slipped into our ways; making silly remarks inspired by David Lynch’s weird dialogue, making inside jokes that only we understood, squealing whenever the dwarf entered a scene. By the time the show ended we were in the kind of comfortable space that I had feared we’d lost forever. But now Juliette and I were going to talk.

She turned off the TV, said, “Scootch,” and pulled her legs up onto the couch. I slid over to make room. When she was settled, she put out her hands, silently asking for mine. I took hers.

“I’m glad we waited till after the show to talk,” she said. “Feel how we are? It’s us, me and my son, just being together.”

Tears welled up in my eyes and I nodded.

“We need to get back to this,” she said.

The tears fell. “But I ruined it.”

“How?”

I squirmed, but she held my hands tight. “How have you ruined us?” she asked.

I hung my head and words vomited out of my mouth in a hot slur of self loathing. “Because I let myself think about having sex with you.” Then, barely intelligible for my anguish, I confessed the worst of it: “And I can’t stop.”

She and I talked a lot about what happened next. In all of our talking, and in the nature of the new relationship we forged, I have never had cause to disbelieve Juliette for her account of why she did what she did. Like her, I believe that after the loss of Gregory, whom she loved more than life, Juliette was desperate not to lose me, too. She knew that what I was saying was my truth: I had become sexually obsessed with her, damaging our mother-son relationship forever. I think that this so broke her heart that she gave herself to me as the only means she had of keeping the obsession from tearing us apart.

She let my hands fall. I looked up. She placed her hands on the shirt of her pajamas and began to undo the top button. As she unbuttoned herself, she spoke to me.

“You are filling out so nicely, Ben. Getting so tall. You have no idea how handsome you are becoming.”

And the first button was undone.

“One day, sooner than you think, girls are going to stop finding that scar on your face unattractive and they are going to start thinking it is sexy.”

And the second button was undone.

“Very sexy. And when that day comes, you are going to have your pick of young, smooth skinned girls with bodies much finer than this old one.”

The third; one left.

“Until that day comes, and not a moment after it does, I will share this part of me with you, if you must have it.”

The last button was undone. She opened her soft cotton pajama shirt, baring her full, mature breasts. I pulled her down on the couch, sliding onto my knees on the carpet to make room. She lay before me, her long, thick hair framing her loving face. I took her in my arms and we kissed. She slipped her tongue in my mouth, my first kiss a thrilling French one, and my hands caressed her soft breasts and bumpy aureoles and wondrous, hard nipples. All that I had dreamed of and lusted for, for so long, was mine. Juliette broke the kiss and lifted the breast I was kneading. I lowered my head and took her engorged nipple deep into my mouth. As I hungrily sucked on her tits, Juliette whispered in my ear.

“And you will always be my little boy.”

I took my mouth from her breast and we kissed with mad passion, our tongues probing, our lips dancing, sucking. Her hand touched my belt, feeling for cock. I broke the kiss. Her eyes were on me and I calmed myself, not wanting to disappoint her. I pulled my tee shirt over me head. I’d been raised a swimmer. Awkward as I was socially, my body was broad shouldered, thin hipped and not without grace. I unbuckled my belt. Juliette swallowed heavily. My mouth was dry, too. It felt like a dream: this woman letting me touch her naked body. I let myself believe Juliette was as filled with desire as I was. I stood and looked down on her. Her mouth was open, her breathing rapid. Our glazed eyes met.

She confirmed my belief: “I want this as much as you do,” she whispered.

I unsnapped and unzipped. I pulled my jeans off my hips, down one leg and then the other. I was wearing briefs. My erection bulged inside them and the circumcised head poked above the waistband. I rolled my palm over the head, my eyes devouring Juliette. She placed her hands on her wide hips and slipped her thumbs inside the waistband of her pajama pants. She watched me watch her pull them down, sweetly lifting her ass and shifting her hips until the jungle between her legs was revealed. I dropped my briefs and went back down on my knees. Juliette turned on her side, propped herself up on an elbow, took my cock in her hand and licked a drop of dew from the tip, her eyes on mine all the while.

“I’m going to cum, Juliette,” I warned her.

She swung her feet to the floor and sat up, her hand never leaving my cock. I stood back up, confused. She spread her legs, opening herself, put her hand on her pussy, slipped fingers inside her labia and rubbed in fast circles. She took my cock between her lips and I entered her mouth. She let go of my cock and put her hand on my ass. I rocked back and forth, sliding between her lips, feeling her tongue suck on my shaft. She kneaded my ass and sucked my cock and I fucked her mouth. My orgasm welled up. I reached down and began slapping one of her breasts and pulling roughly on the nipple of the other, as I had seen her do to herself in the bathroom.

I came in the mouth of the only mother I have ever known, while squeezing her tits as she masturbated herself and swallowed my cum.

I was fully satiated and the guilt I had born for a seventh of my life was lifted. Juliette had risked everything to bring me back to her. She lay back down, pulling me with her. We kissed and I tasted myself in her mouth. We held each other, naked, entwined. As I was drifting off, she said, "As long as I am above the ground, you can never tell a soul of the love affair we have started here, tonight."

I promised her I wouldn't, and I never did.


© Copyright 2018 Janet G. All rights reserved.

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