Incest Stories by Alwayswantedto

[nilr1]

 

The last dozen pictures in the pile returned to the exposed leg theme but this time they were shot from a frontal perspective rather than from the side. Again, Grandma sat on a stool but both feet were now hooked on the lower rung and both legs were progressively exposed as the hems were pulled higher and higher, always by feminine hands that clearly belonged to the person wearing the dress. The photos cycled through various dresses and skirts but the final ones all featured a panty shot, the last one so close that I could see the woman's bush underneath a set of pale blue, lacy panties.
 
Despite knowing this was my grandma, I ground my cock against the edge of the heavy wooden shop table and I could feel myself leaking in my shorts. This was so fucking hot! I would never have imagined, or believed, before seeing these pictures, that my grandmother was once a hot looking woman that let someone take such erotic photos. The photographer had to be a man, but who?Grandma was teasing someone with peeks at her bosom and panties. Would she do that for her husband? Possibly. But would Grandpa have a muscle shirt to loan her for that one picture? I highly doubted it. She must have been teasing a younger man.
 
Slowly, a ridiculous idea formed in my brain but I think I subconsciously rejected it even before I became conscious of the thought. But it returned, demanding to be addressed, to be formally rejected. Why would my father have kept a box of pictures of Grandma teasing a man that wasn't his father? There was only one conclusion. The man was her son, my own father.
 
My mind reeled at the thought, recoiling in shock, despite the way I had teased Mom. I had just been fucking around then. The idea had just popped into my head for some reason I kept it up because it seemed to get Mom hot. My body had a different take. I exploded in my pants, and only then did I realize I had been grinding myself painfully against the table. Just then, Mom called out the back door. Lunch was ready.
 
Hurriedly, I flipped the stack over and bound it with the elastic. I knew my father had looked at these pictures recently, at least in the last few years, because the elastic was strong, not brittle with age, ready to break. I closed the box and carefully set it on top of the cupboards in the exact position it had previously lain, as demarcated by the dust around it.
 
I wasn't able to return to view the rest of the pictures that day. Mom made me mow the lawn and take a load of yard waste to the dump. By the time I finished, Dad was home, and the shop was out of bounds.
 
There was no practice again that night.
 
The next day, I escaped to the shop as soon as I could, fetching the box and releasing its contents with a keen eye on the house in case Mom should wander back, though to my knowledge she had never been in Dad's shop before.
 
I dragged the elastic off the second bundle. It was summer and the pictures started outside in my grandparents yard, the one I knew so well from being confined within it when I was little, free to run around, but only there. The pictures were taken in the backyard but to the right side of the house, the side that wasn't overlooked by any windows, from my grandparent's house or their neighbors. The front was screened by a trellis covered in a climbing vine that flowered in the summer. It was a private, shaded paradise.
 
Grandma sported colorful summer dresses in a couple of pictures which also featured Grandpa but those soon changed to short, white tennis dresses, tight white shorts, and event tattered jean shorts. The shorts pictures demonstrated something that the skirt photos hadn't: Grandma had a tremendous ass. My cock was pressed into the table again.
 
The pictures always dropped Grandma's face as the sequence progressed, inexorably moving to increasingly erotic views of Grandma's legs. Each outfit started with a smiling Grandma striking various poses, then dropped to her legs bent this way and that, then featured Grandma lying on the grass in similar postures, even lifting her legs in the air, bent and closed, then open and straight. Each outfit ended with the same series of poses. Grandma on her tummy, legs together, followed by three or four photos of her legs moving wider apart. The last few, my favorites, showcased Grandma with legs spread wide, in short skirts, a narrow band of panties clearly visible between her legs, especially the last picture but one, so close I could almost count the hairs supposedly hidden by her white panties.
 
But the last picture in the pile, that one I laid to the side, pulling my pecker out of my shorts, frantically yanking my pud as I stared at it, my breathing ragged and out of control as I burned the image of this last photo into my brain. Grandma was wearing her white tennis outfit but her legs were tightly pressed together. Why was this one so hot? Because Grandma's hips were lifted high off the grass while her head lay flat on the ground. Her short skirt was flipped over her hips onto her back and her butt was covered only partially by a skimpy pair of panties, the narrow band I'd seen in the previous photo. My eyes were initially drawn to the backs of her slender thighs and then much higher, to the stretch of her panties across her crack, halfway up her gorgeous ass. But it was the sight lower still that forced me to pull out my cock and stroke myself to orgasm. It was the darker colored patch framed by the triangle of her thighs and her ass, darker than the expanse of white above. Darker because it was soaking wet.
 
I came all over the floor. Mom was calling. For how long? Lunch was ready.
 
"I'll be right there," I yelled, stuffing my cock back in my shorts, scrambling around for some shop towels to clean up my mess.
 
Mom was wearing a nice outfit with matching tank top and tight shorts that emphasized how lovely and still youthful her body was. I compared her to Grandma. I'd fuck either one of them in an instant, and so would every guy I knew. I couldn't help getting hard again as Mom put a plate of sandwiches on the table and poured me a large glass of milk. I wondered if Mom knew about Dad's stash. I munched half a sandwich before I worked up the courage to broach the topic with Mom. She seemed cheery and in a good mood. Maybe tonight was going to be a good one again.
 
"Mom, do we have any old pictures of Grandma and Grandpa?"
 
"Old pictures?" Mom's eyes furrowed.
 
"Yeah. Ones I haven't seen before."
 
"No. You've seen all the pictures we have, many times, including the ones from their things after they passed away. You remember looking at them."
 
It was a statement, not a question, but it was Mom's diction that puzzled me, not her grammar.
 
"Yeah," I acknowledged, "but there's hardly any pictures of Grandma. I was just wondering if you or Dad had anymore lying around."
 
Mom's voice grew even more tense. "Why in the world would we hide pictures of your grandmother from you?"
 
"I didn't mean hide them. I just think it's weird that there are hardly any pictures of Grandma."
 
Mom looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Well, your father didn't like them around. That's all," Mom stated with finality, as if that was that.
 
"Why?" I persisted.
 
"I don't know," Mom snapped.
 
"Oh," I said, acting as if I had accidentally tread on sacred ground. "I'll ask Dad."
 
"You'll do no such thing," Mom exploded. "Don't you dare," she cried getting up.
 
I quickly leaned back, surprised by the vehemence of Mom's reaction. A degree of discomfort signaling she was aware of the photos; that I expected. But this?
 
"Just leave things alone!" Mom snapped as she stomped by me and out of the kitchen.
 
Well, I thought, I guess there's no practice tonight. And there wasn't.
 
The next day, I hurried to Dad's shop but not to look at pictures. Instead, I built a trellis to stretch from our house to our neighbor's fence, hiding our back yard from the street. With the trellis in front and the shop far behind, the high fence down the side and no overlooking windows from either house, I had created a sanctuary similar to the one the pictures of my grandparents old yard.
 
Why?
 
Because of the pictures I saw in the last pile the day before, right after Mom stomped out of the kitchen when I asked about pictures of Grandma. Did her startling reaction mean she knew about the pictures or was it that she didn't want to be reminded about her second fiddle status to a woman long since gone? Surely, knowledge of the pictures would explain Mom's reaction but so would a long haul knowing your husband had picked a wife like his mother, and letting her know that, however unintentionally, through a thousand minor slights over twenty years.
 
I needed to know. If Mom knew about the pictures, then her loose behavior with me might be part of a payback plan and her sudden trips beyond the pale were probably not so spontaneous as they appeared. On the other hand, if she didn't know about the photos, then I needed to continue cultivating Mom, laying the seeds in which those surreal situations could bloom. I had been lucky more than once, or had I?
 
I worked hard all morning. Despite the noise of saws and hammers, Mom never came out to investigate, though I saw her in the kitchen window watching me carry stuff from the shop to the side of the house. At lunch, Mom was almost her normal self, just not cheery. She wore a flowered blouse made of a light, breezy material tied in a knot below her breasts, leaving her flat midriff bare. Below, she wore a pair of tan colored shorts made of a similarly light material, kind of like that quick-dry hiking stuff, that stretched tightly over her buttocks with a lift and separating effect that was more than flattering. Mom's now tanned legs tapered down to a pair of cheap, summer flip-flops. She would have to be deaf, blind and dumb to be unaware of my silent appreciation as she washed the few dishes from lunch by hand instead of putting them in the dishwasher, perhaps to avoid sitting down to talk to me face to face.
 
"So, what are you building?" Mom asked, casually, as if she wasn't really all that interested.
 
"Built," I corrected her.
 
"Built, then," Mom replied, her tone indicating she was keeping herself in check.
 
"A trellis."
 
"A trellis? What for?"
 
"So you can plant a vine with some nice flowers that will block the view from the street. It'll make that side of the yard really private so you can use it if you want to read outside in the sun."
 
"Oh!" By the sound of her voice, Mom was very pleased. She twisted toward me, her face beaming. "That's a great idea. What a wonderful thing to do. Where did you get that idea? You know your father will have a fit that you were in his shop, using his tools."
 
"I just remembered that Grandpa and Grandma used to have something like that and I used to hide around there when I didn't want to be found," I explained.
 
Mom's smile faded at the mention of my grandparents and she turned back to the sink.
 
"You just remembered it, did you?"
 
"Well, I found some old pictures in Dad's shop. That's why I was asking you about pictures of Grandma yesterday."
 
There, I'd done it. I'd thrown it out there. I watched Mom carefully to see how she would react, bracing myself for a repeat of yesterday's performance. But the volcano didn't erupt. Instead, Mom just kept washing the glass she was working on, pushing a dishcloth inside and wringing it around and around. This glass threatened to become the cleanest one in history, if it didn't get worn out first. Finally, Mom spoke.
 
"Mmmmm, sorry about that, yesterday."
 
"Yesterday?"
 
"You know, yelling at you and all that."
 
"Sure. No problem, Mom."
 
"I know your father had a bunch of strange pictures of his mother," Mom explained. "He said she had nice legs and was quite proud of them so one day when she was complaining about getting old, he offered to take pictures of them so she could remember when she was in a nursing home. Just teasing her, he told me, but she took him up on it and the next thing he knew he was taking zillions of pictures of her in every dress she owned. He just couldn't bring himself to throw them away after she died. They were in her things. I don't know why they upset me, but they did, and yesterday all that came back in a flash."
 
I kept silent. Mom realized that the glass she'd been washing for almost five minutes was done and set it in the second sink.
 
"I guess I said more than a mouthful, didn't I? Is that what you found, pictures of Grandma's legs?" Mom turned to look at me.
 
"Yeah," I nodded. Before she turned away, I added, "Your legs are nicer though."
 
Mom turned back to the dishes.
 
"Thank you. I'm sure you feel obligated to say that."
 
"Not at all. The truth is the truth. Remember, I've seen the pictures. I know."
 
"Yah, yah," Mom replied.
 
"Let me take some pictures of you and I'll prove it."
 
"Just bring the pictures in and show me. Then we'll know."
 
"Nope. Pictures have to be compared to pictures."
 
"You're just trying to get in some extracurricular activity outside of piano practice. You don't fool me," Mom said.
 
Strangely, what I really noticed was Mom's failure to correct me when I said 'nope'. I was picking up her lack of attention to correct speech as an early indicator that she had entered the slippery slope.
 
"Ok," I countered. "Just thought you might be interested."
 
More extensive dish washing. A plate this time.
 
"Will you show me the pictures, if I let you take pictures of me? I haven't seen them for a long time."
 
"Sure," I immediately agreed. Had I triggered her competitive spirit? Did she need to prove to herself that she had nicer legs than her mother-in-law, and always had?
 
"Alright then. Go get you camera."
 
"You'll have to come upstairs."
 
"Why? You can see all of my legs right here," Mom waved her hand down beside her leg, dripping soapy water on the floor.
 
"But Grandma was wearing lots of different dresses. It won't be a fair comparison unless you do it the same way."
 
"Fine," Mom's voice tensed up. "I'll go put on a dress. Given me a minute before you come up."
 
I waited ten minutes before going upstairs to Mom's room. I knocked on the door.
 
"I can dress faster than that. I have other things to do this afternoon, you know," Mom delivered a mild rebuke. "What's that for?" she pointed to the high stool I had carried up from the kitchen.
 
I didn't answer right away because I was taken aback by the dress Mom had picked. It was a navy blue dress very similar to the one Grandma had been wearing in the very first picture I had seen. Had her subconscious been active when she chose that dress?
 
"Uh, Grandma was sitting on a stool," I explained.
 
"Oh yeah. I remember." Mom plunked herself on the stool as soon as I set it down in the middle of her room. "Snap away," she said.
 
I took one picture, then said, "C'mon Mom. You saw those pictures. Grandma was being very coy, sexy even."
 
"Yes," Mom snapped, "in front of her son."
 
"Exactly," I replied, not sure what I meant by that response but it galvanized Mom. In an instant, her whole demeanor changed from an angry, uptight lady to a warm, yet alluring woman. She lifted her left leg and placed it on the lower rung of the stool, mimicking Grandma's pose in the first photo to a T. Had she done that from memory?
 
I snapped a few pictures and, without any prodding from me, Mom's left hand dropped onto her thigh, then pulled her dress higher, pausing for a couple more pictures before sliding higher and then higher.
 
"Is this what you wanted?" Mom purred, her throaty voice sending a tingle reverberating around my pelvis.
 
"Yeah, yeah," I answered, sounding short of breath.
 
"Good," Mom said, raising her skirt very high, pausing for a snap or two, then running her fingers down and stroking under the fleshy part of her thigh all the way along the bottom to the underside of her knee, then slipped over and slid up to the top of her thigh, holding the dress near her hip.
 
With a shock, I realized that the pictures told only part of the story. When my father looked at them, he must remember everything that was said and how it was said. What had transpired between each picture? What had he said to convince her to pull her skirt higher, to open her legs, to show him her panties for the first time? Was she really reluctant at first? Did she banter with him, teasing him with slight movements of her legs and feet? Did she curl her toes when she finally dropped her shoes to the floor? Unlike the first pictures, Grandma's feet were bare in most of the photos, sporting bright red or soft pink toenails.
 
"Did you think I'd show you my panties, like she did?"
 
She had seen the pictures. At least the ones in the dresses.
 
"You don't have to sneak around. Come in front," Mom waved me over with her free hand, the left still busy holding her dress up to her hip, exposing one leg but leaving the other mostly covered.
 
"Come on," she encouraged me, lifting her left foot from the rung and shaking her shoe off, then straightening her leg, holding it tense to emphasize the muscles, her foot stretched out, pointing to the front with here black painted toenails, where she wanted me to be.
 
I moved in front. Mom dropped her left foot back to its rung but kept her legs closed, twisting her knees this way and that. Then she started sliding the dress up her other leg until it was held near her hip too, exposing both legs to the same degree as her shorts did, but this was orders of magnitude sexier.
 
"Do you want me to show you my panties?" Mom whispered.
 
I nodded, my cock hardening to her words, the way she said them, and the way I imagined my father felt when his mother said the same thing to him.
 
Mom's knees parted slightly, then stopped. Click.
But you've already seen my panties. I've already shown you." Mom's knees snapped shut.
 
What a fucking tease she was. I loved it.
 
"But that was in piano practice."
 
"That's right. That was to reward you, but this is different, isn't it?"
 
Mom's knees opened again, wider this time.
 
"This is just for the hell of it," Mom swore. Click.
 
"Do you like playing out of class," Mom straightened her left leg again, almost poking the camera with her pointing, flexing toes. "Hmmmmm?"
 
Click, click, click.
 
"I guess you do, don't you?"
 
Mom wasn't expecting me to answer. Of course I wanted to see them. Mostly, I'd only been able to touch them. She withdrew her foot but placed it on the highest rung on the stool, keeping her left knee high and her legs, necessarily, wide open. Her panties swam into view. Oh, but these weren't the same as the ones I'd seen that first time she'd opened her legs on the piano bench. No, these were bright red, made entirely of a fine, see-through mesh that did little to cover the pouting lips constrained beneath.
 
Click, click. As I crouched down to get a better view, I dropped the camera, looked down, and watched as it bounced on the carpet, seemingly in slow motion. I turned my head up and stared at Mom's red-screened pussy. I could feel the smile painted on her face, though I didn't look up. I moved forward, getting closer, my cheeks scbanging along her inner thighs, and then I was there, my mouth covering that beautiful, red, dampish mesh, my nose inhaling its perfumed odor.
 
"Yes," Mom cried, her hands clamping on my head.
 
"Oh no. Wait!" she cried as her hands suddenly flailed wide. I grasped her legs, stopping her from falling backward off the stool. "On the bed, put me on the bed," she ordered, eyes wild.
 
I lifted my little mother easily from the stool and carried her to the bed, flopping her down and immediately diving down to get my head between her skirt, her hands, even as she fell, already grasping my hair to pull me into place.
 
Munch, munch, munch. I loved living past the edge. I pulled her panties up, half way to her knees, pushed my head underneath the waistband stretched between her legs, and was snapped into place again by her urging fingers entwined in my hair.
 
"Ohhhhh, yes, yes, yessss ... eat it ... that's it, lick me, oh yeah, lick me."
 
Mom descended into a constant sequence of yearnings and encouragements. She steered my head around, down for me to shove my tongue in deep, out to lick her slit, around to slather her lips, and up to tease her clit, flicking fast and slow, and dipping for lingering taste. I thought all my hair would be pulled out of my head by the time she finished which took much longer than that first time on the floor.
 
When she was done, I pulled my head away, crouched back on my heels, then braced my hands on her widespread knees and pushed myself up to my feet. Mom didn't try to hide herself at all. She kept her legs wide open even though the tightly stretched panties, still strung across her thighs, must be urging them to close. She didn't try to push her dress down to cover her soaking wet, throbbing pussy, framed by pubic hair slick from her juice and my saliva. She just lay there on her back, regarding me calmly though her chest was still heaving with excitement.
 
"I suppose you want me to let you do what you did the other day. Don't you?"
 
I didn't say anything but I looked down at the edge of the bed, assessing if I needed to lift her further onto the bed or if I could just put my knees on the bed and lean over her head.
 
"You want to put your thing in my mouth. Don't you?"
 
I nodded.
 
"Take it out then. Let me see if it's clean."
 
I shoved my hand in my shorts and popped the snap open with a twist, pulling my stiff cock out with a single, practiced movement.
 
"Do that a lot, do you?" Mom teased, acknowledging my expertise.
 
I leaned forward.
 
"I haven't said yes," Mom held up her hand.