Incest/Taboo Wash Me

All characters in this work are over the age of 18.

A Quick Note to the Reader:

If you're looking for the Brazzers model of erotic incest stories, you're going to be really disappointed with this one.

One of the things that I aim for in my stories in a healthy degree of buildup. It's a lot slower, take a lot more time, and develops the struggle a lot more fully than most erotica bothers to put forward. In my stories, you'll never read a ridiculous quickie where a mom and son initiate their relationship with a flimsy excuse like 'mom, my penis hurts.' 'oh honey, let me fix it with my pussy.' 'okay, thanks mom.'

That'd be crazy. And unrealistic. And dumb.

Frankly, it's the internal struggle that makes the story so fucking sexy.

If you want to see a mother and son, unbearably horny, fighting their desires because they're afraid of the taboo world, but who keep thinking that maybe it'd be so delicious to give in and to kiss, to touch, to fuck, to breed, to satisfy each other in the way mom and son could, then...

*****************

Mom lit the candles with the kind of care that was rare in a person. Tonight, the night I turned eighteen, she moved slowly, letting the flame on the match determine the pace of her light fingers. Her hands moved gently, slowly. While she was mostly the kind of woman that moved with efficiency, purpose, elegant speed, tonight she was making careful time lighting the candles on my birthday cake.¬

The lights were off. All there was to brighten the room was the match and the growing blossom of light from the candles. She gave a little smile, said, "happy eighteenth," and then presented it: the dainty dessert for two that she baked herself. A smiling face in red frosting fit neatly under the candles.

She got close, her clothes smelling like cinnamon.

Her chest, like milk.

Mom was pretty tonight. The candle flame lit up the gold in her hair and flickered across the clean lines of her corporate uniform. The light and her smile were warm. She was soft.

We cut the cake and talked about what it was like to be adults. While she spoke, her fingers would rest alongside her temple, she would look up and into the corner of the room, her graceful neck delicately straight, and she would gently narrow her soft eyes. Every time she said something important, she appeared so focused, thinking, capable. When combined with her tall and elegant figure, you almost felt like you were getting the wisdom of several generations at once from a modern queen. She really did have that effect.

Especially in those moments.

You really had to be lucky to have a mother like her. Annie was the kind of woman that ran a perfectly clean house, cooked like a professional chef, worked a full-time corporate job, half taught me all my schoolwork herself, and managed to seize promotions at every corner.

All without a husband.

Not that he's dead, or anything.

Just kind of an asshole.

It was the kind of situation growing up where you didn't really have to worry about not having a dad around -- having Annie for a mom was enough. More than enough. She was mentor, caretaker, confidant, cook, disciplinarian, and anything else that the best pair of parents could collaborate to manufacture, and she was all of it, all at the same time.

You would have thought I'd show a bit more respect on the daily. Or that night, for that matter. Stealing her alcohol probably wasn't the most thankful way I could repay her for helping me survive into adulthood.

But then again, I was now an eighteen-year-old guy with an entire basement full of wine my mom had yet to drink.

Maybe it wasn't right of me to go digging around down there, and maybe it wasn't what I'd be proud of when I was a parent myself, but I wanted to celebrate my legal adulthood for me. A little show of rebellious independence was the perfect gift from me to myself. Just a couple bottles from way, way in the back, something she wouldn't miss, labels with words in French I didn't understand.

They got the job done.

I watched some bad porn and jerked off, blisteringly drunk, and then passed out.

I woke up the next morning, officially an adult, murderous headache and all. Being eighteen started with a bang and a whimper.

It started with a hell of a lot more too.

Especially when it came to my mom.

While I cursed myself that morning and asked why I'd drink by myself instead of going to a movie or something with my friends, I realized we were out of aspirin. I guessed pharmaceuticals were a part of being an adult too, so like the grown up and responsible person I was, I decided the best thing to do was to explore my mom's medicine cabinet.

And while I thought that it wouldn't be a big deal, since Mom was supposed to be at work before I woke up, I barged right into the bathroom, rifled through her pills, ignored the tampon boxes, and then turned right around so that I could get out of there. It was my own personal contribution to keeping her privacy private.

As any reasonable and respectful son would.

But the quick steal didn't happen the way I wanted it to. The privacy wasn't as private as I hoped. And mom wasn't at work.

She was in her bathtub.

It was one of those tubs that seemed to double as a jacuzzi. It was more than wide and large enough to allow her the luxury of stretching out, the full length of her body in a beautiful line, from end to end.

Now, I have to admit that I've always known my mother was pretty. Sometimes I admitted to myself that she was good looking. Beautiful, even.

And every once in a blue moon, when my friends would tell me how fucking hot my mom was, and that she was the posterchild of hot blondes, and how she had gorgeously heavy looking tits, and how she had long legs that they just wanted to lick at, and how she had an ass that always managed to press itself against the back of her skirt, and how she was the kind of hot boss or sexy schoolteacher archetype that could have made millions in porn, then I could internally, maybe, almost see where they were coming from.

In that instant, my mother, bare from head to toe, suspended nude in the warmth of her luxurious bathtub, proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that my friends were a hundred percent right.

Even if she was my mom.

Breasts. Heavy. Pale and shimmering and wet. Pushed up by her delicate arms, practically floating in the warmth. My mother's pale nipples, pearly pink. Peaks glimmering under the surface. Flush cheeks, a flush chest, her eyes closed, her lips barely parted, red with heat and something I had never, ever seen in her before.

It was arousal.

In my mother's hands, she clutched a silvery shower head, its hose drifting past her long, long, smooth legs, her dainty feet in a slight curl.

My perfect mom was masturbating.

The shower head was pressed somewhere. Somewhere just above her thighs. Just over a pale, golden patch, barely visible, growing more visible as she lifted one knee and as her legs started to part.

Mom really was a true blonde.

The sprayer gushed against her golden, triangle sculpted apex. Pubic hair in a neatly tended shape, a rush of water moving over a bit of soft pink beneath it. Mom's leg kept moving, her legs spreading wider. Her eyes, pressed closed, lashes draped over colored cheeks, her brow furrowed as she focused, hard, on something, some scenario playing in her head. Headphones sealed over her ears, playing music or an audiobook or something -- explaining perfectly how I somehow managed to get into her bathroom as she pleasured herself without being noticed.

This moment completely knocked my life upside down, erased the entire old reality.

Who was this person? This was my mom. This wasn't my mom.

Was it?

The woman before me panted, the spray of water directed by trembling hands between her legs, her red, full mouth parted in the gasps I never knew she could make, that elegant, sexual nymph was the woman I knew my entire life. I watched her, stuck, unable to look away from her glistening, beautiful body.

And then she opened her eyes.

And then looked right at me.

Her mouth snapped closed, her eyes opened wide, the rest of her body froze, shower head included. The flush of color on her cheeks brightened as the sound of the rushing water seemed to multiply in the deafening silence. But what affected me most was the tone of my name in her mouth, that stammering name that was said with a shocked, scared breath, the note of pleasure filtering through it despite her shock. "A-Anthony?"

My mind connected a single, dirty thought in that instant, one that resonated through me more loudly than any thought ever did before.

I knew that it was how she would say my name.

If we were fucking.

If I was inside her. If my cock evoked my name from her begging, panting lips, it's how she would say, Anthony, as if she were begging for more, as if I had forced my name from her mouth by filling her with cock, with ecstasy. If my own mother would let me.

In that instant there was something hard, painfully hard in my pants, pressing straight through.

Then she said my name again. Not with pleasure this time.

This time, it was because she yelled at me and threw the shower head at me while violently covering herself, her hands covering her chest and the little golden triangle at the top of her legs. The spray of the warm shower water and a small wave from her tub splashed against me while I tried to dodge and then sprinted out of her bathroom, stolen painkillers in hand, and tried to make it to my bedroom before mom could yell at me anymore.

How was I supposed to know she took the day off? How was I supposed to know she had a surprise outing planned for my eighteenth and that's why she was at home, enjoying her morning, waiting for a convenient time to take us to my favorite restaurant?

Instead, I was grounded. Then she found the wine bottles and I was grounded some more.

Easily the most awkward birthday I've ever had.

And the best.

You don't forget a sight like that.

But we lived almost immediately afterward as if it was forgotten. I don't think mom held it against me that I walked in on her. I don't think she could tell that I now had a very new, and very concrete fantasy that seemed to intrude into my head every single time I saw her. It suddenly got hard to listen to her talking about work, while her body turned to the side every time she prepared food, while the heavy, teardrop breasts under her shirt bounced as she's made up and down movements over a cutting board.

I could see, vividly, the exact color of her nipples in my mind, the way her breasts pushed together in the tub while her arms mimed a similar movement while she kneaded fresh bread. It was even worse whenever she'd say my name. Every time she called it, all I could hear was the way she said it in her bathroom that day.

"A-Anthony." Gasping.

It was worse when I'd end the day, go to my room, and hear the shower turn on in our main bathroom. Or if she spent a long time in her own room, morning or night, and I'd wonder if she were taking a soak. Or every time we went shopping and she'd pick up some new scent of bubble bath soap. I'd start dreaming again, having to fight my body trying to betray me with an erection.

Thankfully, she didn't seem to notice my obsession.

Or that I was now jerking off to the thought of her, to the fantasy of her, multiple times a day, that my wastebasket was filling up with cumrags produced to the thought of her voice as she said my name, her body's pleasure coursing through it, accompanies by the thought of her heavy, hanging breasts, slick with water.

I felt ashamed.

Embarrassed even, that I was now attracted to my mom, my actual mom, not even a stepmom, and that a huge reason I was trying so hard to keep from disappointing her was I somehow wanted her to only say my name for, you know, positive reasons.

So life went on and I started a degree at the local college, and picked up a corporate internship thanks to some well-placed phone calls by my mother. It looked like I would follow a fairly similar track to her if her connections had anything to say about it. All I had to do was show up, well groomed, shuffle papers four times a week, and if I graduated and still held the internship, then I was guaranteed a cushy job with an office and the promise that I wouldn't have to do a single truly productive thing for society for the next forty years.

All I had to do was not fuck that up. At all. Mom's emphasis, not mine.

It almost looked like I was set up for a conventional, healthy life with a decent job and only a secret kink that made talking to my gorgeous, single, sex symbol mother awkward. I thought that maybe my life would turn out mostly normal after all.

Until weeks later, our water heater broke.

I could tell something was very, very wrong by the way mom's face darkened at the plumber. When we called them out because we suddenly didn't have any hot water, I thought that maybe it was just a little issue with the water heater. Nothing that couldn't be solved by the magic of a $500 bill from Versa Plumbing. But unfortunately, the visit was running a lot longer than I thought it would, and mom was on the receiving end of what looked like very, very bad news.

When mom's eyes widened and she suddenly shouted, "A whole week?", my stomach dropped out from under me. Mom only looked that upset, or yelled, when things were serious.

After a short exchange, the plumber gave a shrug and turned to leave. Mom's arms were folded, and I saw her looking into the water heater closet, angry as hell. As the plumber passed me on the way out, he tried making eye contact with me and said, "I don't know what else to do for you guys. It's like everybody in the state wanted a new water heater all at once. You'll have to wait."

"We need a whole new heater?" I asked, incredulous.

The guy shrugged again. Like a plumber. "I'm not even sure we'll be able to install it for you right away. We'll call you in a week. Or if that's not good enough you can try calling around. If you can get anyone else in a week, I'll be surprised."

Now it made sense why mom was so pissed off about it. There was a massive snow front coming in-- by Tuesday we'd get several inches at once and everyone was preparing to enjoy a few weeks of being snowed in.

It meant that most companies were going to be harder to reach -- they'd be busy with winter repairs; burst pipes, frozen lines, and the million other emergencies that had to be fixed, icy roads or not.

"By the way," the plumber leaned a little closer to me. "Your mom. She's single, right?" I noticed his eyes looking a little too closely at her legs.

"No," I lied, pissed. "Does your boss know you cruise for dates on the clock?"

The plumber shrugged, again, and smiled as he walked off. "Sometimes, for a beautiful woman like that, it's worth asking. See you in a week, kid. Enjoy your cold water."

He drove off, and I wondered if maybe there was any wisdom in asking lonely housewives if they were single.

Inside, mom wasn't any happier. If we were out of hot water, it meant a few things. It meant no hot water to wash dishes. It meant our dishwasher was probably going to be nearly useless. It meant washing our hands was now going to be an ordeal. It meant...

"Mom?" I asked. "How are we going to shower?"

Mom looked up at me distractedly, still bent over and looking at some of the connections on the water heater. Her back was arched forward, her legs and bottom were tight against her leggings.

I completely understood why the plumber was staring at her earlier. I was doing the same thing, but made sure to look away respectfully. At least, once she turned around.

"Oh. Showers. Sure." Mom stepped back, rubbing her temples. "He said the heating element's barely working. It's warming everything, but slowly. Not enough for full on baths, but it might be enough to shower if we ration it."

Mom looked at me and said sternly, her pretty lips drawing thin, "which means you're going to keep your showers to a couple minutes. Maximum. No more of these thirty-minute soaks you've been taking recently."

"Alright," I said, trying not to think too hard about it, as if mom would somehow read my mind and realize I was jerking off in the shower.

I was definitely using the shower to recreate the fantasy environment where I saw her in the nude, suspended in the warmth and steam of her tub.

After seeing what I saw, who wouldn't?

"So, it sounds like we're just going to make do, huh? Conserve or something?"

"Something like that," mom groaned, mourning the loss of her own bath time, and left for her room. "Go ahead and shower. We've got work in the morning. Just leave some warm water for me, alright?"

I really did try to comply with her request and made my shower as short as possible. The water started out nice enough, but by the end of a minute, I could tell that the water tank was dipping low. I toweled off, dressed for bed, and texted mom that I was done while I went back to my room. The plan was that she'd have to use the shared shower in the center of the home -- the one I used, just because it was right next to the water heater and it was our best bet for keeping as much of the warmth in it as possible.

I tried to put the idea out of my head that my mother was now nude, in the very space I was just minutes ago.

But then I heard mom scream from our bathroom.

Genuinely thinking she was in danger, I sprinted out of my room, and smashed into the bathroom, ready to defend her against burglars, or whatever danger she was in. But she wasn't in danger. Not in real danger, at least.

But she was cold. The hot water ran out and the temperature halved in seconds. That'd cause anyone to scream. But I didn't think about that. Didn't have time.

Right as I crashed in, I saw the flash of her skin, of her smooth and heavy tits accentuated by nipples that were red, sharp and hardened, covered in little goosebumps that gave her a patterned look. Her shaking, her trembling burned into my eyes and tucked away into my mind as another unintentionally sexy image. And as I crashed into bathroom, her eyes turned to mine, our eye contact an instant flash of fear, and mind-numbing surprise.

But now that she saw me, she was angry.

"Are you..." I sputtered, still not understanding, "are you alright?"

I barely managed to dodge a bar of soap as I ducked out, slamming the door shut.

I don't know why mom was so forgiving with me. I'm certain that in other families, walking in on a nude relative would have been punished by months of awkwardness at minimum, an eternity of shame at its worst.

Considering how much pleasure I was getting from every glimpse of her, I should have been getting a little more of a punishment. Maybe a suggestion that I go to therapy. But all I got that evening was a stern, "learn to knock," and then mom was back to business as usual. At least, after she got warmed up again. The coldness of the water was practically the temperature of the snow that was falling outside.

"Obviously," she lined out for me, wearing a bathrobe as we mentally recovered at the kitchen table, "we're going to have to make a few adjustments to our lifestyle to make this work. I've already called around and all the other plumbing companies are saying the same thing -- nobody's got the water heaters, they'll be in after a week, and we'll either have to hire a handyman or install it ourselves." Mom's fingers drummed on the table, her gaze like a hawk while she stared out the window, where the cold was settling in over our home.

"And obviously, trying to take showers, one after the other, that's not going to work. Even the few minutes you spent took up the rest of the tank." Her fingers lifted from the table, and a couple of them rested on her round bottom lip. Her soft eyes narrowed. "And trying to heat water on the stove for a bath won't work. That'll take way too long. So, we're going to have to make sacrifices."

My mind tried to connect the dots. A picture I didn't expect was forming. I half whispered, "we're going to... shower together?"

Mom stared at me as if I had just recommended that we kill ourselves. "What? No."

While I blushed harder than I ever did in my entire life, my whole face getting hot enough to heat all our showers for the rest of our lives, mom continued. "One of us is just going to shower in the mornings. The other can keep their evening shower. We'll make it simple by saying you can do evenings and I'll take mornings from now on. Sounds good?"

I nodded and tried not to make eye contact with her as she got up and went to bed.

"Anthony," she sighed, the smooth curve of her hips swaying as she walked down the hall, "I don't know what has gotten into you, but you need to try thinking before opening your mouth."

The next morning, as I was dressing for work, I had a knock on the door of my room.

"It didn't work," mom announced, not even waiting for me to get to the door. "The hot water is barely warm. If I showered now there definitely wouldn't be enough for you by the time you get ready for bed."

"So what are we going to do?"

"Maybe we'll boil water on the stove. So we can take a teacup sized bath." Mom sighed as she left my doorway. "God, that's going to be a pain. Or maybe we'll just have to bite the bullet and shower every other day." Her voice carried over from the kitchen as she got her work supplies together. "But that won't work either. I've got to look totally presentable for work. And so do you. These things aren't negotiable -- even if the circumstances are this bad."

"Maybe we can call in sick?" I asked.

Mom walked all the way back to my room to give me a stern look.

"Sorry I suggested it," I said.

"You and I don't have a choice," mom said as she walked back off. "Attendance is everything to your boss. Stevens won't hesitate to fire you, snow, or sick, or not, and that's the end of that once in a lifetime internship. And I've got a promotion I'm trying to land at my job, and playing sick is going to kill that. Sorry, hun, there's just no avoiding it. We're going to make it work, somehow."

She stopped somewhere in the kitchen while I straightened my tie like a ridiculous peon. "Hey," she came back around and started to laugh, her bright, soft eyes shining, "maybe we'll have to shower together anyway. Not like you haven't seen it all by now. Ha!"

While I stammered and tried to look like there wasn't any truth to it, she continued, moving quickly. "Oh, cheer up. We're family; this kind of stuff is alright if we're adults about it. I'll see you tonight. Love you." Like a whirlwind, she had her stuff gathered, kissed me on the cheek, and then disappeared outside.

Just like that, she consented to us showering together.

Was she serious?

If I knew my mother at all, I could tell she was dead serious and had no idea that I lusted after her. She had no clue that some of my recent masturbation fantasies very literally included fucking her in the shower, being put together with ridiculous, flimsy excuses like not being able to wash my back, or that both of my arms were broken and I needed her to gently wash my cock.

But being together with her, naked, in that little cramped space was actually going to happen.

Was it?

I couldn't imagine it happening in any of the way I had been fantasizing about it. Mom was single minded and was probably going to make an entire system about it -- we'd be in and out in three minutes, mentally and maturely chaste, cleaner than we'd ever been, and we'd have enough hot water left for a bedtime coffee.

But still.

We were going to be naked with each other.

I went to my internship and fought my erection all day as if it were trying to kill me.

I got home just after some night classes and found mom in the shared bathroom, staring at the layout of the shower.

"You're going to make a system, aren't you?" I groaned, realizing her type A personality was about to make this as efficient and mechanical as a factory floor.

"We likely have five minutes of hot water, so we have to do this correctly," she said, cooly. "It takes a little longer for me to do my hair, so you'll hang back here while I shampoo. Once I'm done, you'll take the shampoo while I go around you and lather up with the soap." She pointed out our positions as if she were dictating where exactly a set of files went, speaking faster than I could pick up. She lost me and then finished, "...and then I'll do my final rinse, and then we're done!"

The way she explained it could have made sense if I was able to visualize it, but all I could put together was that she was dead serious about being together in the shower, merely switching off under the stream until we were done. It meant we were going to be close -- very close, passing by each other, back and forth.

When I looked at the shower, I could tell she wasn't considering the fact that we'd practically have to rub against each other.

Very, very closely.

"Alright," she concluded, pressing her hands together. "Let's have dinner, then we'll get this over with. If we stick to the plan and practice, we'll be able to get through the week without too much suffering."

While we ate our dinner, the snow started. Mom dreamily looked out and started talking about hot chocolate, unaware that I was staring at her uniform, going through some of what was about to happen in my head. She was going to take it off. All of it. We were going to be close together. Wet. Touching ourselves with soap.

Judging by how fucking hard my cock was under the table, there was no way in hell I was going to get done with that shower without her realizing exactly what my body wanted.

It was going to be very stiffly obvious.

The plates were clear. It was about to happen. I choked down the last bit of my food and went to my room, halfway hoping a miracle would fix the water heater.

"Anthony!" I heard a call from the bathroom.

No miracles today, I guess.

I made it to the entry of the bathroom, pajamas in hand, towel slung over my head, my mind heavy with the worry that even though I was about to witness the naked gloriousness of my mother, she was about to understand exactly what I thought of her.

"Hey," I ventured, saying through the cracked open door, "I think maybe I'll just risk it tomorrow. You go ahead and shower, I'll just go to bed and --" The door swung open, and mom stood there, shirt gone, only in her pants and a bra. Her blonde hair was draped along her shoulders, free from the way it was tied up through her workday.

Mom's breasts were so... full. Even under the bra I could tell they were still heavy. Hot. Plush soft.

But her eyes were daggers.

"You're going to shower, Anthony. Just look away if you're going to be such a prude about it." She turned, scoffing, and her hands went up behind her back. "I thought you were mature enough for this."

The clip slipped sideways beneath her fingers.

It was moving too fast. There wasn't any time to think.

I blinked and the bra fell. My mom's back was now bare. I looked to the side where the mirror was and saw that same pink color, I noticed the times I walked in on her in the shower.

Pearly pink.

Nipples with heavy, curved areolas. Breasts so large, so bountiful that for an instant I thought about what it would be like, drinking milk from them. The curve swept down elegantly, her breasts still somehow so full and so abundant and heavy it was a wonder that she was in her forties. Nobody would have believed it.

But then my mother's hands went down to the sides of her pants and pulled down in a swift tug, and in the span of a blink I saw a voluptuous white -- my mother's legs, her ass, firm and round and pale. Her legs were so, so long, and the way her pink panties hugged her bottom revealed the cumulative effort of innumerable squats and thousands of hours on an exercise bike.

There was no denying it.

My mother was in her sexual prime.

Her hands went to her panties last.

I held my breath.

She pulled her hands down, down, down, and then there it was.

A little glimpse of blonde.

And pink.

Mom looked at me, oblivious to the way the blood rushed toward my waist. "You know, we'll have to start this shower sometime. Come on."

I took off my clothes while mom did a final double check, entirely nude, making sure she had all her soaps, her shampoos all lined up underneath the shower. The way she bent gave me a full look between her curvy legs -- the pinkness of her pussy was so bright between the whiteness of her skin, the lips were full, taut, firm looking.

They looked delicious -- I wanted to kneel while she bent, moving around her soaps, press my face between her legs and lick into her, to taste my own mother.

Holy shit, I was crazy.

Mom's arm stretched out one last time, toward the handle. It turned slowly and the water started. Her fingers moved up, tested the stream coming from the shower head, her head craned upward while her body was bent over, her ass arched upward. As if she were presenting herself.

As if she were giving herself to me.

Obviously, she wasn't. Obviously, she was innocently believing that her son had absolutely no desire for her, and that the way she was leaning over wasn't causing any issues for us at all, but I was panicking. My erection was starting, despite every effort I took to think of something else, anything else -- to pinch my arm, to flex my thighs, to recite the alphabet backwards, every possible trick that I learned over the course of Junior High.

And maybe it would have worked, if the steam didn't start rising from the water, and if mom didn't step inside, face the water, direct it to pour all over her heavy, gorgeous breasts, if she didn't close her eyes and make a blissful moan at the heat and wet.

My cock rose. And I had to get in there, not just because the shower had to happen, now, but also because my cock itself demanded it.

It was too late for me.

I stepped in, torn between distress and awe.

Mom bent over for shampoo while I stood behind her, the curves along her back and her legs like a piece of art. She stood straight up and started to work it into her hair, bringing the whiteness of suds and a rich, delicate smell of berries and tea into the bathroom. With her arms up, I saw her tits draw tight, changing their shape from teardrops to full mounds.

"Alright," she said, eyes closed, "your turn for the shampoo." She stepped to the side, only a few inches worth, and started to edge closer to me, intending for me to move past her in the tiny, tiny space of the shower.

How the hell did she expect this to work again?

I started to move, but I could see it, even if she couldn't. My cock was engorged, the space was too small. We were going to have to touch, to brush past each other. There was no escaping it.

I moved my hands down and pressed my cock upward, moved past her as carefully as I could, but there was no escaping it.

As she moved back, as I moved forward, our bodies made contact. The back of my hands, my hip, they all brushed against her firm, beautifully round, unbearably soft bottom. She was already a little slick from the shampoo sliding down. My cock strained against my hands, fighting to get closer to her, and at the same time my mind was screaming about how close she was, how it would only take a little 'accidental slip' to end up in the kind of situation that made for great porn.

I shook my head and bit my lip, hard, trying to keep from thinking about this too hard. I might have been crazy, and I might have been attracted to my mother, but I was going to shower and be done with this.

Fuck. Who was I kidding?

How the hell was I going to make it through the next week?

"You alright?" Mom asked.

"I just got some shampoo in my eye, no biggie," I replied as quickly as I could.

"Oh. Sorry." Mom patted me on the back, the slick sound of the water and the feeling of her hand making my cock surge.

I shampooed and tried to meditate on the whiteness of our bathroom, but it wasn't enough. My cock, free, was still pulsing with strength, only encouraged by the hot water running down and over its length. If I turned around, it wasn't going to take much for mom to notice it... at all.

I could hear her hands, moving over her body behind me. She was already lathering up, undoubtedly pressing on her tits, along her legs, between them, moving over the ample flesh of her ass and pressing into them. I hurriedly rinsed the shampoo out of my hair and tried to move onto the soap next.

"Switch up," mom said, suddenly. She was moving.

I turned to face her so I wouldn't lose my balance or accidentally bump into her and cause us to fall over since the space was so small, but unfortunately, I made a huge miscalculation. I expected us to go the same way as last time, with her facing away. But this time, she wasn't.

Mom and I were now face to face, moving past each other, mere inches away, covered in soap, smelling like flowers and fruit and lemongrass.

And what was worse. I was still erect.

I snapped my hands down to cover myself, to move it upward so it wouldn't touch her.

But there was no covering what was happening to me. My cock head was colored, engorged, my hands pressing it to me nowhere near enough to hide it from my mother.

As we moved within inches of each other, she looked down.

Her eyes went to my cock. Then they went wide.

"Oh." I heard her say through the noise of the water. It wasn't even an exclamation. More of a statement.

And then as we moved completely to our spots, my mother facing away from me under the shower head, myself behind her, I heard her again, "oh..."

That was the sound of a realization -- a very sudden one.

Immediately, the firm, stoic and concrete attitude of hers crumbled. My mother wasn't any longer the corporate woman with the power of a company in her grasp. She was a woman. A very shocked, very surprised woman who was staring at her son's cock.

She looked up at me, shocked, her mind finally clicking with the understanding of why I was so hesitant, piecing together the sight and proximity of her body with the physical evidence I had between my legs. Suddenly, she realized that it wasn't a matter of maturity that made me so nervous around her like this. It wasn't because I was icked out by nakedness, not because I thought it'd be awkward to be nude around family.

My mother realized that I wanted her. Her son wanted her.

And there it was. My mother knew.

Her certainty crumbled some more.

She knew exactly what my hard, erect cock meant in this context. Her eyes looked into mine with a lot more understanding than they had before. Not the good kind of understanding, either.

Then our eye contact broke.

With the knowledge out there, she was silent for the rest of the shower, rushing through the last of the soap, rinsing stiffly.

For me, the crushing weight and embarrassment was too much. I wanted to stick my head underneath the stream of water and inhale it until I could have been a drowning victim.

Eventually, after an agonizing eternity, mom was done, and she stepped out, not looking at me, her eyes fixed wide, wide open in shock and disbelief. She quickly wrapped a towel over her hair, patted herself off with another, and then left.

I was alone under the stream, only having washed my hair after all that struggle.

It was starting to get cold.

"I'm sure it's natural," she said, no longer shocked, while we sat at the kitchen table. I didn't want to be here. I went straight to my room after I got out, and tried to come up with a plan to run away to Thailand or something, but mom knocked and insisted that I come out and at least talk about it.

"Look. It's biological, I'm sure. There's no need to be embarrassed." Mom spoke, her trademark certainty back. "I get it. Men are just that way. You see anything with two legs and you're going to start feeling things. I certainly don't hold it against you." Mom tried to engage eye contact with me. "Anthony?"

"I'm just embarrassed as hell," I said, refusing to look her in the eye. I couldn't believe I was talking with my mother about this.

"Don't be, it's not like women aren't similar," she said, laughing. "It's the same with me. While I guess other women don't really get sidetracked like that, but me, I'm not nearly as much of a prude. I start thinking things when I see, you know, an erection." Right after she finished speaking, her mouth clamped shut. As if she realized what she had said exactly.

Then we made eye contact. I was looking at her with a little bit of shock. She was looking at me with a little bit of surprise at herself.

"Not that I thought anything when I saw yours," she said, quickly, her cheeks reddening, "it's normal to, for me to, but when... Well, I didn't. I really didn't think anything about it. I mean, I'm your mother."

Then it was silent. And her turn to be embarrassed. The façade cracked.

But then I had a realization of my own. My mom saw it. She saw my cock, full mast. She knew for a fact that I was aroused, that I wanted her. What did she think when she saw it? Did it arouse something in her? Anything?

It was hard to tell, but her embarrassment was triggering a very weird train of thought.

It led into a weird little logical string that said that I was sexually aroused by my mom. And that she might have just been a little sexually aroused by me. That kind of mutual desire was...

Possible?

Did my mom see my cock and...

...like it?

Mom stammered some excuse about work and went to her room, leaving me with a lot more questions and a much stronger hard-on than before.

We both got home at around the same time, the snow confounding both of our commutes into a game of slip and slide. We ate dinner, and I notice mom only looked at me periodically, looking immediately away whenever we made eye contact.

I wondered what was going on inside her head. It couldn't have been easy, or quiet. It was probably just as loud and confusing in her head as it was mine. But there was the new and emerging question going on -- with all her work, her overtime, her manic obsession with a clean house, and the continual tutoring she gave me throughout high school...

...how many men had she been with since dad?

There was never a single occurrence of her coming home with a guy, introducing him as 'her nice friend'. There was never a single time where she called to tell me she'd be home late with a strange or breathless tone. There was never, ever a single time where she stayed anywhere else overnight, except for a business trip that was more of a 'women's conference'.

So how many men had she been with?

Had she been with anyone at all?

And what happens to a woman way too busy to have sex, but who clearly enjoys masturbating in the bath?

If my own hormones were any indication, that level of pseudo chastity would drive somebody crazy. The fact that I hadn't looked at porn in a couple weeks was driving me crazy, so how was my mom faring?

Was my cock the first one she had seen up close since dad?

It had to have been.

"Well," mom said, hesitantly, breaking through the depth of thought.

I immediately noticed that her cheeks were a little flushed, and that she was nervously looking to the side. She stammered, "I think it's time to address the elephant in the room."

I nodded and tried to look calm.

"Clearly..." She looked the other way, "there's something going on. With you. But we're going to be, you know, adults about this." Then she was silent for a long time. I didn't know if I was supposed to respond to this, but I don't think I would have had any words even if I did want to say anything.

"So," she continued, nervously, her hand going up to her wavy blonde hair and curling it around her fingers, "let's bite the bullet. And we're going to get cleaned up. And if you, uh, feel uncomfortable, just turn around. Sound good?"​