26-04-2021, 12:20 PM
The next day
The next day morning….. Mechanically I brushed my teeth and got into the shower. Then it hit me.
It was hard for me to believe, and every time I thoughtabout it, my mind spun. I had just done something that wasn't supposed to bedone. I had made love to my own Amma.
I leaned forward and pressed my forearms against the cooltile of the shower wall. The hot water beat down on my shoulders and neck as Ihung my head down. As the water coursed down my back and legs, an imagesuddenly popped into my head - an image of the previous night, of my own motherlying back on top of me, me grabbing at her tits, of us- Oh my god! Making loveto her!
I felt nervous, filled with discomfort; my heart waspumping. How could I face her again? My god, how embarrassing! And all that mother/sonstuff we were saying - where did that come from? Yet even through the shame andconfusion, I felt my cock grow heavy and solid, just thinking about how she hadfelt.
This was crazy. I felt like I was going to explode. I closedmy eyes and forced the images from my head; there would be time to worry aboutthis later, plenty of time, I was sure. I finished washing up and stepped outof the shower.
I dried quickly and shaved, then, wearing a pair of shorts anda t-shirt, I went out into the living room. No sign off her. I went to her bedroom.Amma was still sleeping there, her long dark hair spread out in a fan on thesheet, her thin cotton nightgown pushed out to the sides by her flattenedsagging boobs. I couldn't look away. Now that I knew my mother as a sexualcreature, it was hard to flip my mind back and just see her as "Amma".Just looking at her reminded me of the feel of my manhood in her pussy and ourmoans and cries as we made love. My cheeks reddened, and the guilt overcame meagain. No wonder she had asked me not to speak much… what could we speak about?
I went about my morning ritual like a robot, mechanicallymaking coffee, dressing, eating some bread and fruit, and then I sat down tocheck my email. When I realized that after twenty minutes I still hadn'tfinished reading the first message because my mind kept drifting off intoworry, I got up. I looked into the bedroom to see that Amma was still sleeping,so I left a note on the counter saying I would be back soon and went for awalk.
When I got back to the apartment an hour or so later, I hadpicked up a copy of the ***** for Amma, because she did not like the Times ofIndia!. I unlocked the door and went in. My mother was sitting at the diningroom table, clad in her blue robe, drinking a cup of coffee. She turned herhead to look at me, but when our eyes met, both of us quickly looked away.
"Um, good morning," I muttered. "Here's thepaper." I held it out to her.
She took it from me. "Thank you, baby," she said,and then she bit her lip. Obviously she was reminded of last night as quicklyas I was when she said that, and I imagined her cheeks were burning like minewere.
"Yes Amma" I replied after a long pause. I didn'tknow what else to say. I felt like an idiot. I felt like a pervert. And even asI stood there silently, in my mind I imagined leaping across the short spacebetween us, bridging the chasm and dragging her to me, forcing my mouth ontohers, roughly kneading her breast with my hand, and this was almost worse thanthe shame of knowing what we had done - wanting it, somewhere tortured insideme, to happen again. Abruptly I turned and walked away down the hall.
I grabbed a book at random off of my bookshelf and then wentback out and into the living room. I sat on the couch and opened the book andtried to read, but I couldn't concentrate. I sat there for several minutes, andwhen I turned my head, I saw that Amma and the newspaper were gone, probably tothe bathroom.
I put the book down on the coffee table and stretched. Ididn't know what to do, or how to approach my Amma. Every time I imaginedtalking to her, all I could feel was embarrassment. I loved her still, but thelove and trust which a man normally has for his mother was all swirled up withdesire and lust and guilt, roiling in my mind ceaselessly. Even if we couldcome to accept we had done this, where could it go? What possible ending couldit have but a bad one? With my thoughts still muddled and confused, I lifted myfeet up onto the sofa, turned, and laid my head back on the arm of the sofa. Myeyes shut.
The next day morning….. Mechanically I brushed my teeth and got into the shower. Then it hit me.
It was hard for me to believe, and every time I thoughtabout it, my mind spun. I had just done something that wasn't supposed to bedone. I had made love to my own Amma.
I leaned forward and pressed my forearms against the cooltile of the shower wall. The hot water beat down on my shoulders and neck as Ihung my head down. As the water coursed down my back and legs, an imagesuddenly popped into my head - an image of the previous night, of my own motherlying back on top of me, me grabbing at her tits, of us- Oh my god! Making loveto her!
I felt nervous, filled with discomfort; my heart waspumping. How could I face her again? My god, how embarrassing! And all that mother/sonstuff we were saying - where did that come from? Yet even through the shame andconfusion, I felt my cock grow heavy and solid, just thinking about how she hadfelt.
This was crazy. I felt like I was going to explode. I closedmy eyes and forced the images from my head; there would be time to worry aboutthis later, plenty of time, I was sure. I finished washing up and stepped outof the shower.
I dried quickly and shaved, then, wearing a pair of shorts anda t-shirt, I went out into the living room. No sign off her. I went to her bedroom.Amma was still sleeping there, her long dark hair spread out in a fan on thesheet, her thin cotton nightgown pushed out to the sides by her flattenedsagging boobs. I couldn't look away. Now that I knew my mother as a sexualcreature, it was hard to flip my mind back and just see her as "Amma".Just looking at her reminded me of the feel of my manhood in her pussy and ourmoans and cries as we made love. My cheeks reddened, and the guilt overcame meagain. No wonder she had asked me not to speak much… what could we speak about?
I went about my morning ritual like a robot, mechanicallymaking coffee, dressing, eating some bread and fruit, and then I sat down tocheck my email. When I realized that after twenty minutes I still hadn'tfinished reading the first message because my mind kept drifting off intoworry, I got up. I looked into the bedroom to see that Amma was still sleeping,so I left a note on the counter saying I would be back soon and went for awalk.
When I got back to the apartment an hour or so later, I hadpicked up a copy of the ***** for Amma, because she did not like the Times ofIndia!. I unlocked the door and went in. My mother was sitting at the diningroom table, clad in her blue robe, drinking a cup of coffee. She turned herhead to look at me, but when our eyes met, both of us quickly looked away.
"Um, good morning," I muttered. "Here's thepaper." I held it out to her.
She took it from me. "Thank you, baby," she said,and then she bit her lip. Obviously she was reminded of last night as quicklyas I was when she said that, and I imagined her cheeks were burning like minewere.
"Yes Amma" I replied after a long pause. I didn'tknow what else to say. I felt like an idiot. I felt like a pervert. And even asI stood there silently, in my mind I imagined leaping across the short spacebetween us, bridging the chasm and dragging her to me, forcing my mouth ontohers, roughly kneading her breast with my hand, and this was almost worse thanthe shame of knowing what we had done - wanting it, somewhere tortured insideme, to happen again. Abruptly I turned and walked away down the hall.
I grabbed a book at random off of my bookshelf and then wentback out and into the living room. I sat on the couch and opened the book andtried to read, but I couldn't concentrate. I sat there for several minutes, andwhen I turned my head, I saw that Amma and the newspaper were gone, probably tothe bathroom.
I put the book down on the coffee table and stretched. Ididn't know what to do, or how to approach my Amma. Every time I imaginedtalking to her, all I could feel was embarrassment. I loved her still, but thelove and trust which a man normally has for his mother was all swirled up withdesire and lust and guilt, roiling in my mind ceaselessly. Even if we couldcome to accept we had done this, where could it go? What possible ending couldit have but a bad one? With my thoughts still muddled and confused, I lifted myfeet up onto the sofa, turned, and laid my head back on the arm of the sofa. Myeyes shut.
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