Incest Stories by Alwayswantedto

[nilr1]

"Is it broken?" Mom asked, jarring my eyes back to the shoe.
 
I bent Mom's foot back toward her so she could see for herself, holding her knee steady while the gap between her heel and her thigh narrowed. Mom's eyes were drawn to her shoe and mine returned to her panties, following a line of sight along the narrow spike of her heel as it pointed directly toward my target.
 
Mom hunched over to look at her shoe, legs widening even more and thrusting her pubes hard against the lacy panties. It was too much. I began spurting in my jeans. I tried to hide my jerky movements by wiggling Mom's heel to demonstrate its adhesive strength but I knew no amount of shaking would cover the wet blotch that would soon stain my pants. I was wondering how to escape the situation when I heard my father's footsteps at the top of the stairs.
 
"I'm ready," Dad called, starting his descent.
 
Mom stood, rapidly smoothing her dress over her legs and wiggling her foot firmly into place in her shoe. She tousled my hair as I remained crouched before her, leaning over my offending crotch.
 
"Play a nice tune for us while we leave, Jon."
 
I crawled up onto the bench and quickly tapped out a jolly tune, thankful for the chance to hide my incriminating damp crotch under the keyboard. I nodded at my parents when the said goodbye. Mother told me not to stay up too late, a habit she couldn't shake even though I was leaving for college in a matter of days.
 
The Hook
 
Home for the Christmas holidays. I was eager to show off the new skills I had learned but Mom never joined me at the piano except to stand behind me while I played. My hopes for a replay of summer's end, especially another 'broken' heel incident, dwindled with each passing day. Christmas day passed uneventfully and we were approaching the last day of the year when Mom asked me if I would play a piece or two at the New Year's Eve party my parents were hosting that night.
 
"Sure, what would you like to hear?"
 
"Play a few pieces and I'll pick," Mom said, more cheery than she'd been all holiday.
 
I sat down and began to play. On the second song, Mom laid her hand on my shoulder. At the end of the song, she slipped down onto the bench beside me, eagerly awaiting my next number. I played my heart out for the third piece and my chest tightened when Mom exclaimed her pleasure when I finished.
 
"That was, how do you say it nowadays? Awesome," Mom enthused, turning slightly toward me.
 
"Thanks, Mom. I'm learning a lot at college," I said, proudly.
 
"That wasn't just learning, that was raw talent," Mom beamed.
 
I blushed and looked down.
 
"You must do a recital at Church."
 
I looked up quickly. This wasn't what I was hoping to achieve. "Mom, ..."
 
"Oh, but you must. Please, Jon."
 
I shook my head. "Mom, you know I ..."
 
"It would mean so much to me," Mom interrupted, her voice softening.
 
The changed in her voice triggered and incredibly immediate feeling within me. I lowered my head to avoid her eyes, fearing my sudden carnal thoughts could be easily read, and was surprised to see the fingers of Mom's right hand scratching her skirt, slowly tugging it up from her knees. I went rigid, eyes fixed on Mom's thighs.
 
"It would be so wonderful to see you up there in front of everyone," Mom purred.
 
Mom's hand, now filled with her bunched up skirt, withdrew up her leg, dragging her skirt toward her hip. Her left knee moved but was blocked by the bench. Then, just as her hand stopped, Mom's right knee moved away, spreading her legs and drawing her skirt even higher. Suddenly, light reflected off a narrow expanse of white material, starkly outlined against the dark material of Mom's skirt.
 
"You will, won't you?" Mom asked, her voice still soft but not as smooth as before.
 
"I'm going back to school in a few days."
 
"Oh, but it won't be until summer. You can do it then, can't you?"
 
My voice caught in my throat but I nodded and managed to croak, "Yes, of course. If that's what you want, Mom."
 
"It is," Mom whispered, though we were the only ones home.
 
And with that, her hips pushed forward and her pubes strained against the cotton material that, though they didn't reveal as much as the lacy, black ones months before, still disclosed much, and my mind filled in the rest.
 
"You make me so happy, Jon," Mom's voice returned closer to normal but in a throatier version.
 
"But at the end of the summer, right?" I said.
 
Mom's brow furrowed. "The end?"
 
"Yes, we'll need to practice," I said.
 
"Practice? We?"
 
"Yes," I said, my confidence rising. "I want to do a duet, with you."
 
"Oh, Jon. I couldn't play with you, not the way you're playing now."
 
"Sure you can. You just need to practice."
 
"No. I'd look like a fool."
 
"Bull," I said, the closest thing to a swear word I could use in front of my mom. Mom's eyes widened, realizing that I must feel strongly if I used a word like that in her presence.
 
"But Jon ...,"
 
"I want to play, with you, Mom." I held my finger to her lips to silence further protest. "I need you to be up there with me," I pleaded, "the two of us, together."
 
Mom looked deep into my eyes and I held firm. She must have been satisfied because she suddenly smiled sweetly and agreed, "Alright, Jon. The two of us will put on a show, a mother and son duet."
 
She leaned forward to kiss me. Surprised, I actually pulled back and Mom's lips landed on my cheek, as intended, but caught the corner of my mouth. Her face flushed slightly when she pulled back, indicating she was aware of the miscue. On impulse, I followed her retreat and kissed her back, my mouth partly on her mouth, as if in retribution. When I pulled away, I was surprised to find my hand had found her waist during the short duration of our caress and awkwardly pulled it away. My mind flooded with the awareness of how firm her waist was and a strange excitement about how sharply it flared out to her hips.
 
I cast my eyes down for a final look at Mom's panties and the lovely triangle they formed with her thighs, patted her bare knee, and said, "You'd better let me practice now if I'm not to play the fool tonight, then."
 
I played rather well that night and was the hit of the party. At midnight, several of the women, somewhat tipsy from the evening's consumption and loud merriment, showed me their appreciation under the mistletoe hung from every door jamb in the house. Unfortunately, there were only two that I really didn't mind kissing and only one of them kissed like she didn't mind if anyone was looking. I was surprised by these church-going women who, under the cover of darkness and a couple of drinks, were eager to provide a taste of what they had promised to someone else.
 
After everyone had left and Dad had stumbled upstairs, I stayed to help Mom tidy up so there wasn't such a big cleanup job the next morning. Mom was just leaving the kitchen, and I was bringing the last two glasses from the living room, when we met in the doorway. Mom took the glasses from my hand and placed them on the counter beside her instead of taking them in to the sink.
 
"That's enough for tonight. Thanks for your help, Jon."
 
I nodded.
 
"You played wonderfully tonight. Everyone really enjoyed themselves," Mom said. After a short pause, she added, "I noticed Mrs. Erickson was particularly pleased," referring to the good looking woman that trapped me under the mistletoe with a particularly enthusiastic embrace.
 
Although she was joking, I sensed displeasure. I looked up to the top of the doorway to avoid her eyes but they followed mine and we both latched onto the mistletoe that still hung there. I reached around to the light switch and flicked it down, throwing the kitchen into darkness. Mom's upturned face reflected the dim light of the single lamp lighting the living room behind me. I circled her waist with my arm and lowered my face to hers.
 
"Happy New Year, Mom," I whispered, covering her lips with my mouth before she could react.
 
Mom didn't resist me. In fact, she actually pressed against me as earnestly as Mrs. Erickson had, squashing her breasts against my chest and standing on her toes to meet my lips as they moved on hers. It was neither a short nor a long kiss and though Mom ended it, she was breathing hard when she pulled away. Both of us seemed awkward after my spontaneous act.
 
"Whew, I guess it's going to be quite a year," Mom cried, turning her head to the side to avoid my eyes, unnecessarily, given I was similarly looking around.
 
Mom stepped around me and rushed up the stairs to her bedroom, and husband.
 
A few days later, I left for school.
 
The Hot Summer Begins
 
The summer started slowly. After my initial welcome home and an official barbecue party with family and old friends, I settled into my summer job and lazy weekends hanging out with old friends, few of whom were still around. Many had gone elsewhere for summer work since not many jobs were available in our small town, and some of those who remained had changed and it just wasn't the same hanging out with them anymore. So I began spending more and more of my evenings and weekends at home.
 
It was easily three weeks before Mom brought up the promised recital. I hadn't forgot about it, I just didn't know how to bring it up. Reacting on gut instinct, I decided it would be better if Mom first broached the topic. On a quiet Wednesday evening, after she finished a book and Dad wasn't keen on talking since he was in the middle of his own who-dun-it, did just that.
 
"So, when are you going to start practicing for the recital?" Mom just came right out with it.
 
I looked up, feigning confusion. "Recital?" I asked.
 
Mom threw a couch pillow at me. "Don't be a brat. You know darned well you promised me last Christmas that you would play for the Church."
 
"The Church?" I mused.
 
Another pillow. "Father!" Mom cried.
 
Dad looked up, first at Mom, then me, then back to Mom, then back into his book. "A duet, I believe, if my memory serves me right," he said.
 
Mom and I looked at each other, mouths open, then at Dad, shocked by this indisputable evidence that he was actually aware of what happened around him.
 
"You'd both better get to it, I imagine, and leave a man to read in peace," he said, nose still buried between the pages.
 
Mom and I looked at each other again and she crooked her head at the piano in the next room. I got up and led the way, sitting a little to one side to leave room for my mother. I waited for her to pick something to play, thinking about how fortunate it was that Mom was wearing a light and breezy summer dress and not the shorts or pants she typically gardened in during the summer. In fact, I realized now that I thought about it, she had been wearing dresses almost every day since I got home.
 
Mom sat down, sweeping the loose material of her dress under herself and then smoothing the topside over her thighs.
 
"You pick something," Mom said, seeing that I was waiting for her to choose.
 
"Alright," I replied, thumbing through the books, looking for something that wasn't designed as a duet, something that would put the onus on one player, Mom, leaving me with little to do. I was keen with anticipation, my body tingling so much, it was hard to breathe.
 
"This isn't a duet," Mom complained about my choice.
 
"It can be played like one," I assured her.
 
"But which parts should I play?"
 
"You play the whole thing, and I'll chime in."
 
Mom shrugged and began to play. I slipped in with little bits here and there, then more and more frequently with longer and longer parts. I ad-libbed the whole thing, thinking it up on the fly, enjoying the chance to put the long hours of improvizing with fellow music students into practice. Mom was really worked up. Not just her face but her whole body showed how delighted she was with this new experience. She sweated joy, and it was very endearing and quite infectious.
Stiff, and playing with her breath caught in her throat, Mom gradually conquered the tension, her body relaxing even though she was breathing was fast. Slowly, I rubbed my closed fingers and palms under her breasts, wishing she hadn't worn a bra but even so still barely able to retain control of my own breathing. Throughout the rise, I continued to gently rub the bottom swell of her breasts, never squeezing, never gripping, just rubbing the soft underside of her tits, until the crescendo was breached and the music slowly rolled down to the gentle lap of continuous, evening waves. I turned the page and returned my hands to Mom's waist, matching the slow return of my breathing with hers, feeling the music through her.
 
It wasn't long before the music began to rise again. My hands massaged Mom's waist, fingers stretching around so far they almost met over her belly. I could sense Mom's anticipation that I was about to raise my hands to grasp her breasts directly above. Her expectation was so intense I could physically feel it in her muscles even as she continued to play with a sensitivity I'd never heard from her before.
 
But my hands didn't rise. When Mom reached the same point up the musical slope where I had first cupped her breasts, I moved my hands back and then downward instead, slowly scbanging over her hips to make sure she could feel my progress. Down I ventured, onto the top of her thighs, dragging her dress toward her knees, until my hands were far enough they could slip between her legs.
 
With exaggerated movements of my fingers, I clawed the dull, gray material of the dress up until it was all bunched in my hands. After pausing for a moment, I released the dress and slipped my hands underneath, opening and stretching my fingers to clasp Mom's inner thighs, palm down on each leg. Slowly, in time with the music, I moved my hands in until they bracketed Mom's panties. Then, after another brief pause, I began pressing in, squeezing her panties between the edges of my two hands, puffing them out, like two hamburger patties being forced out of a bun but unable to escape, prevented by the thin wall of her panties.
 
Faster and faster I squeezed as the music rose, always gently, and never moving my hands onto the panties, just pressing from the side to squeeze Mom's pubes together, then relaxing, again and again and again. I couldn't help humping the fleshy part at the back of Mom's dress. I tried to stop myself but I couldn't. I twisted my hips in small thrusts, in tandem with my squeezing hands, faster and faster, with the music, always with the music, and then ...
 
Mom cried out.
 
"Ahhhhhhhooohhhhhhh."
 
A single cry and then the music stopped, echoing throughout the room as Mom's cry subsided, as my hips stopped moving and my seepage waned, until Mom stopped quivering between my hands.
 
Soon, it was quiet except for the ragged sound of our breathing. Slowly, that returned to normal. Reluctantly, I climbed off the bench, knowing I had to go. I kissed Mom's neck, said goodnight, and turned to walk up the stairs behind me, knowing I had to escape before my father came in and my wet pants betrayed me. I heard mom belatedly mumble when I was halfway up the staircase.
 
"Goodnight, Jon."
 
Over the Edge
 
The next morning, I lay in bed wondering if last night had been a dream, but knowing it wasn't. I hadn't faced Mom at the end but I had to now. I would be expected at breakfast before we all left for Church.
 
My apprehension was ill-founded. Mom behaved as if everything was normal. I thought it was just an act that would soon fray under its own tension, but it didn't. Somehow, Mom really acted as if last night hadn't changed our lives. The entire day played out like any other Sunday, through Church, the afternoon and even supper. Dad was feeling better but worsened after dinner and repaired to his Lazy Boy, snuggling under the comforter Mom dbangd over him before walking to the couch and taking my hand. After tugging me to my feet, Mom pulled me across the floor.
 
"You don't mind if I drag your company away do you Father?" Mom asked.
 
"Not at all," Dad looked up from his book, smiling. "Do what you want with him," he waved with his free hand.
 
In the piano room, Mom pushed me toward the piano. "Get the music ready. I'll be right down."
 
I opened the book to our piece and sat down after running to the living room to grab one of the flatter, silky pillows to place on the bench. Mom returned a moment later. There was something different but I couldn't see what it was. Had she washed her face, freshened her lipstick? I couldn't tell but something was different.
 
Mom stopped by the bench and slipped her slippers from her feet. The muscles in her calves tensed prettily and my breath caught when she looked at the pillow placed mostly on but partly off the front of the bench.
 
"Is that for me?" Mom asked.
 
"Yes," I nodded.
 
"Thank you," Mom said, crooking the top of her toes around the ankle of her other foot and sliding them up her calf. "Are you ready to play?" she asked, looking down at the bench, already pulled away from the piano.
 
I nodded again, taken aback by Mom's sudden assertion of control. She dropped her hands to her side and pulled her summery, dark green dress with a loosely pleated skirt up, baring half her thighs as she stepped between the bench and the piano before sitting down on the pillow. Mom turned to look over her shoulder.
 
"Sit and play, Jon," she said, before turning back to the piano.
 
I walked towards her in my summer shorts, and swung my barefooted legs over the bench one at a time to seat myself firmly behind her, immediately noting the greater expanse of fleshy behind available now that Mom was sitting on a pillow, as I had planned. Mom put her hands on the keyboard, ready to play, then turned her head as if waiting.
 
"Go ahead," I said.
 
Mom didn't move. I repeated myself but she still didn't budge.
 
I raised my hands and placed them on Mom's hips. Immediately, she faced the piano and began to play. I moved my hands up and down her waist, enjoying the swell of flesh out to her hips and pushing further around to splay my fingers across her tummy. I could feel the large indent that formed Mom's navel and wished I could lay my bare hands on it, imagining teeny blond hairs, though Mom was a brunette, running from there over her soft belly until they thickened into the brown bush covering her pussy. I knew her pussy hair was brown, I'd seen it poking out the leg of her panties.
 
Mom continued playing as if that was all we were doing, playing the piano, despite the extent of my roaming hands. It was some time before I moved my hands up to cup Mom's breasts and received a small shock. Her breasts were much softer and I could feel their shape better than before. Mom was not wearing a bra!
 
I could only see the side of Mom's face but it seemed to me that the corner of her mouth was definitely turned up into a smile. I couldn't be sure because it disappeared quickly and then I wondered if I had imagined it. Real or not, Mom was obviously not bothered by me flagrantly caressing the bottom of both her breasts. If there was any doubt about her allowing this transgression, it disappeared when Mom turned the page herself. I had forgotten all about it.
 
Encouraged, I formed my hands completely around her tits and began a gentle, squeezing massage, like I was handling two erotically shaped water balloons that required delicate care lest they break. Cautiously, so as not to disturb her playing, I laid my head sideways on Mom's back and continued my loving embrace. When I felt Mom's arm lift to turn the page again, I slipped both hands up to take a firmer grip of each breast, my fingers circling around those incredible little extensions I had only fondled in my dreams. Now, with a simple loosening of my grip, my fingers slid up to close around Mom's wonderous nipples.
 
Fuck. This was so great. I hunched my boner into the fleshiness of Mom's ass as I lightly pinched and rolled her nipples through the dress. In my mind, I was holding Mom's bare tits and her nipples protruded beyond my circling fingers at least an inch. I was going to cum. It was swelling up and up. I couldn't stop it unless I chucked that image out of my mind, quit humping against her bottom, and let go of her tits. I couldn't do any of them, so my jiz welled up until it flooded out of my cock, like a tidal swell rather than a burst, washing it's stickiness into my shorts.
 
When my surroundings came back into focus I realized Mom had stopped playing. I was still holding her tits but my fingers were loose and no longer moving. I just held them as I recovered my breath, leaning against her back, blanketed by a wonderful feeling of bliss.
 
I never wanted to let go but I realized I had to clean myself up. As mom started to play the piece over, I released her breasts and reluctantly pulled away.
 
"Is something the matter," Mom asked.
 
"No, I just have to go to the bathroom," I answered sheepishly.
 
"Hurry back," she said, her voice low and strangely urgent.
 
Upstairs, I pulled my shorts off and cleaned up the mess I had made, then tossed my shorts and underwear into the laundry hamper, still covered with my sticky cum. I walked half naked down the hall to my room, my swaying cock beginning to stiffen as I imagined myself feeling Mom up while she played the piano. Quickly, I removed my shirt and put on a pair of pajamas, and half ran back downstairs.
 
"That's a good idea," Mom said, turning to look at me when she heard me coming down the stairs.
 
I resumed my position straddling Mom's hips, the thought of Mom wearing a loose pair of pajamas with nothing on underneath greatly appealing to me and my stiffening companion.
 
"Maybe we should get changed before we start practicing tomorrow night," I suggested.
 
"That sounds like a good idea," Mom concurred. "Tomorrow night? Do you think we need to practice every night?"