Eat Your Heart Out, Dude!

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Cara Brennan couldn’t pinpoint the precise time when she began thinking taboo thoughts involving her son Tristan, though she was certain it started even before she and Gary, her husband of twenty-two years, agreed to separate. She did know that it started with a dream. She was in her nightgown, mint-green, if she recalled, and see-through panties, and she was in Tristan’s room, on his bed, and he was gawking at her, his face a picture of wanton desire. Then she woke up, went to the bathroom and masturbated.

Her unconscious mind was no stranger to erotic dreams, but she couldn’t deny that this dream was among the most wonderfully erotic she’d ever had. It was also one of the most disturbing. Parents aren’t supposed to sexualize their offspring. She knew that Tristan was a good-looking kid, knew she was on safe ground thinking it in an objective way. Her friends had even made comments to the effect that Tristan would be high on their list of “prospects” if they were twenty years younger. He was blessed with looks that appealed to most women, regardless of age. He stood just below six feet and possessed the kind of strong, handsome features found on matinee idols—the rough, “masculine” type, not the “pretty boy” type. He styled his thick mane of dark brown hair the way young men did in the late nineteen sixties, long by twenty-first century standards, super-long by the standards of men who favored the shaved head aesthetic. A hard, toned body honed by years of competing in various sports had served Tristan well in life. Men respected him, sometimes envied him; and women, especially athletic women like Molly, couldn’t wait to rub their bare bodies against his.

That included Cara, though she carried her attraction—rather, her unconscious mind did—to a deeper, darker level, to the domain of repressed feelings. Try as she might, she couldn’t push her desire back into her unconscious, especially after another such dream popped up months later. The genie, so to speak, was out of the bottle.

By this time, Gary was out of the house, living with the woman he’d been seeing for over a year, the one who had caused all the trouble. She was more a symptom of what can happen when marriages grow stale. In any case, Gary was gone, leaving only Cara and Tristan in the split-level house on Seneca Lane. Tristan was in his second year of college, a suburban to downtown commuter. Cara still worked as a dental hygienist, bringing in decent money. The opportunity for Cara to act on her fantasies wasn’t lost on her, opportunity reinforced by Tristan’s admiring glances when he watched her pad around the house wearing skimpy attire, a mint-green nightgown included. She wasn’t built like Molly, Tristan’s young girlfriend, slim and buff. She was on the chunky side—not fat but hardly displaying the athletic aesthetic that even forty-something women like her could claim through dedicated exercise. Her figure was akin to the voluptuous pinup goddesses of the nineteen-forties and nineteen-fifties—with a few extra pounds given that those goddesses were in their twenties and perhaps early thirties like the great Betty Page. Women who looked like Cara could be found on porn sites featuring the best of the MLIFs, those deliciously sexy middle-agers that served as fantasy material for men a generation younger.

Cara didn’t know about these sites until one day when she caught Tristan watching one of them on his desktop computer. He was in his room with the door open. Cara had just stepped into the hall after her shower wearing a short robe that she had tied around her waist. Standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorpost wearing a smug grin with arms folded, she said, “I think I look as good as them.” She meant it half in jest, something said to gage her son’s reaction.

Tristan turned around in his chair, then gave her the once over, from her bare feet to her straight, lightly frosted hair that hung loose and damp just above her shoulders. “Sorry mom,” he said, “I should close my door when watching this stuff.” It could have been worse; she could have caught him jerking off instead of simply looking, fully clothed in jeans and a T-shirt.

Cara unfolded her arms, stepped into the room and sat on the edge of his double bed. Her silk robe, decorated in a flower pattern set over a silver background, while tied firmly around her waist, still revealed much of her ample cleavage. Her lightly tanned legs were fully exposed—her plump, shapely calves and her full, luscious thighs. “Does Molly know you watch porn?”

Tristan swiveled his desk chair around to face her. “Yeah, she does,” he said, feasting his brown eyes on this woman who looked sexy enough for any MLIF porn site he’d ever surfed. Of course, this was no image on the seventeen-inch flat computer screen that sat on his desk. This was an undeniably sexy woman sitting on his bed who just so happened to be his mom. Wearing an expression of lust mixed with shyness, he said, “Mom, you must aksaray escort know that it isn’t easy talking to you when you’re dressed like that.”

“Well, that can mean only two things,” she said. “You’re either embarrassed or you’re distracted to the point of thinking taboo thoughts.” Crossing her legs, she leaned back on her elbow and swished her tongue across her sensuous lips. “Of course, you could always be both.” She grinned watching him squirm in his chair and his olive complexion blush. “It’s okay, son. We’re here alone. Nobody will ever know.”

He watched the seductive way she swung her right leg back and forth over her left knee. “Mom, I feel kind of ashamed, if you want to know the truth.”

“Ashamed of what? That I turn you on? Don’t be. It’s not that unusual, you know.”

Her leg kept swinging and he kept looking and his cock kept rising. He swallowed hard. “Really? None of my friends have ever told me they want to do their moms.”

“I’m sure they haven’t. An Oedipal Complex isn’t an easy thing to admit to anyone, friends and strangers alike. And maybe none of your friends feel that way. But we both know that you do and I think it’s high time you know that your feelings are reciprocated.” She opened her robe about an inch to expose part of her left breast.

He brushed his hand across his forehead, then gave his crotch a brief squeeze. “Geez, mom, this is crazy.”

“There was a time when I would have concurred. But when your father ran off with that woman, my entire moral code got turned on its head.” She then revealed to him her dreams, those graphic, erotic dreams that she had heretofore kept secret. “So after those dreams, I didn’t know what was right anymore. Right became acting on feelings, taboo or not, so long as it didn’t hurt anyone else. Your father didn’t care who he hurt when he began his affair. I was devastated if you remember.”

Tristan nodded. Then he confessed his own dreams, the ones where Cara played a leading role. “They’re always the same ones, the ones I remember. You catch me masturbating in my room, then help me finish it. We start to, you know, really get into it. Then I wake up.”

“It leaves you frustrated, I bet.” She uncrossed her legs, then inched them apart.

“Um, well, yeah, kind of.” He stared at her sheer yellow panties. “Then, like I said, I feel ashamed.” His eyes stayed glued to her crotch, where he could see her privates through the thin fabric.

She began massaging her breast. “We’re here alone, son, and I’m feeling overwhelmed with desire, not to mention wet in anticipation.” She shoved a hand down her panties. “Whew! Perhaps it’s time we turn our dreams into reality. I can see that you want to. You’re no virgin, I know that much.”

She knew that gleaned from her close relationship with Molly. Cara and Molly had gotten close over the time that Tristan had dated her, close enough to where Molly had been candid with Cara about her intimacy with Tristan. ‘Your son is quite a lover,’ Molly had told her during one of their more intimate woman-to-woman talks. It didn’t escape her that Molly might feel betrayed, if not horrified if she ever found out that Tristan had shared his bed with his own mom. She assumed that’s why Tristan was being so tentative about something they both knew he wanted. “It’s because of Molly that you’re being shy, isn’t it?” she said.

“Well, you’ve got to admit that she wouldn’t exactly be thrilled with the idea.” His consideration for Molly’s feelings didn’t keep his libido from raging at the sight of his mom’s fingers churning inside her panties, not to mention her scent, fresh and seductive after her shower.

“I get that,” she said. “And you also know that Molly and I sometimes act like girlfriends the way we gab. But this is one thing I’d keep confidential. Meanwhile, just the thought of your manhood inside me is enough to make me come sitting here doing this, doing what I normally do in private.” Her fingers kept going as she looked at him, her mouth open in a look of seductive desperation. “Tristan, I’m so fucking hot right now I can barely stand it. I can think of little else but spreading my chubby legs for you while you lick my swollen clit and then pile-drive your youthful cock inside me. Come on, son, let’s do it. In my heated state, I’m not above begging.”

Tristan’s cock, with no more room to expand, pressed hard against his underwear, soaked already with his pre-cum. To indulge or not to indulge: it was a ridiculous question in light of his desire, desire that had been building for months. How does a young guy resist the irresistible? A young guy doesn’t, especially a young guy stuck with an Oedipal Complex inflamed by the sight of his hot, horny mom, begging him to consummate, to fulfill erotic dreams that had furnished him with loads of masturbation material. Enough was enough; it was time for life to imitate fantasy. Moments later, anadolu yakası escort he was on his knees, slipping off Cara’s panties and then wedging his head between her legs. He was no novice when it came to oral sex. In fact, performing it on Molly had conditioned his tongue to where he could move it at lightning speed across his girlfriend’s pussy, the way he was now doing to Cara as she lay on her back. “You like that, mom, you like that?”

Cara knew she didn’t have to answer, knew he was being rhetorical. Actions speak louder than words, and her actions—more her reactions—spoke for themselves. Not that she could string together a coherent sentence anyway, not in her state of being, on fire from Tristan’s oral technique, the fast and furious tongue action, inflaming desire that had gone unfulfilled until now. When she did manage to say “I want you, all of you, baby,” Tristan threw off his T-shirt, stepped out of his underwear and jeans and then joined her on the bed.

Stretched out diagonally on top of her, Tristan kissed her the way sons never kiss their moms, kissed her as if he wasn’t related at all. He slipped a finger inside her wet cunt, smiling in gratification at the sound of her moaning. His mouth then went to the nipples of her breasts, considerably larger than the “handful” that Tristan once described Molly’s. Moments later, his “manhood” took the plunge, followed by the sounds of sex filling the room, the slapping of bodies, the moans, grunts and groans and Cara’s words of encouragement. “Yes, ohmygod, yes! You’re quite the lover, Tristan, just like Molly said.”

“You’re quite the lover yourself,” Tristan said. “I love the feel of your soft, sexy thighs around my waist and your erotic scent. Dad must have been crazy to leave you.”

Cara simply nodded, enthralled with how Tristan was making her feel. She remembered how excited she got years ago when she and Gary would make love in the car because of the dare factor, the chance they might get caught. But that sort of excitement paled in comparison to what she was doing now, making love to this hunk of a young man, her own son. When she wasn’t massaging her breasts, she was feeling his muscular arms and rubbing her fingers through his hair. She loved the way he grabbed her wide butt, adding his thrust to her own. She came with her eyes closed and her mouth open and her vocal chords uttering one long syllable of euphoric pleasure. Tristan, alert to the possible consequences, withdrew and came on her stomach.

She didn’t mind the sticky substance on her body. And even if she did, she was too spent to protest. Eyes half shut, she lay on her back with her arms over her head. Barely above a whisper, she said, “That was wonderful, Tristan. I hope you’re okay with it, because I’d be beyond frustrated if this doesn’t become a regular thing.”

He stood up, grabbed a tissue and wiped the excess jizz off his cock. “You’ve spoiled me for porn, mom. Not that I’m complaining.”

Cara smiled warmly. Then she sat up, slipped on her robe and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She began to stand, then sat back down. Feeling dizzy, she put her head down to keep the room from spinning. “Woo, what you do for me, Tristan!”

*****

The feeling was mutual. Now that Tristan’s Oedipal appetite was out in the open, his inhibitions lifted like a stage curtain. He knew what went on in their household wasn’t normal. Even so, he couldn’t contain himself. Cara egged him on, doing housework in sexy outfits and bending over, lots of that, and stooping too, stooping and squatting with her legs spread apart, not wearing panties. Short nighties and robes were de rigueur for housework when she was in the mood for Tristan’s amorous attention, and he never failed to accommodate her. She’d be bent over, vacuuming, and he’d come up behind her, cup his hands around her boobs and then start to dry hump her. She’d click off the vacuum and turn around. Then Tristan’s mouth would go to work, first on her lips, then on her erogenous zones. Invariably, while still standing, he’d slip a finger inside her cunt, and then they’d end up either on the floor or on the sofa engaged in some serious fucking.

One evening, she approached him wearing something dressy, preparing to go on a date. Close to an hour before the guy was to pick her up, she waltzed into the living room where Tristan lounged on the sofa watching TV. “I’m kind of nervous as well as horny,” she said. “Think you could do me with a quickie?”

Tristan turned away from his cop show, looking his mom up and down, from her black high heels to her black dress, low-cut and hemmed just above her lovely knees. “Here, right now? You might get that dress stained. And what about your date?”

She stepped closer and gripped the hem of her dress. “Yes, here and right now. And don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of clothes to wear. As for my date, well, that explains my anxiety. It’s a first ataköy escort date with a guy I met on Match.” She then lifted her dress around her waist. “As you can see, I didn’t bother putting on my pantyhose yet.” She stooped down. “Here, I’ll help you get started.” Before he could respond, she reached out and pulled his shorts around his knees. “Boy, it doesn’t take much to get that thing up, does it?” she said at the sight of his budding erection.

“Just lifting your dress like that can do it for me,” he said. “No need to toot my horn. But I’d love to give you a tongue lashing.” A tongue lashing had become one of the double entendres they had adopted in the language of their sex life. Tristan gave the tongue lashings, while Cara gave him toots on his horn.

“I’d love one of your trademark tongue lashings,” she said. She stood and held her dress up while Tristan sat on the edge of the sofa, his hands hooked around his mom’s bare legs, giving her his trademark tongue lashing. “Oh my…ohmygod, yes!” she shrieked. Her eyes were closed and her knees buckled as she swayed to the rhythm of her son’s tongue, swishing and stabbing at its usual incendiary pace, just the way she liked it. Moments later, with her dress flipped up to her back, she was bent over the sofa, taking in his manhood from behind. With Cara now on the pill, Tristan humped uninhibitedly. No more did he need to withdrawal or hold back and he didn’t. She asked for a quickie and she got one. Less than two minutes later, he shot his load, breathing hard, oohing and ahhing.

To her delight, he was able to stay in long enough for her to follow. She shrieked, then collapsed, halfway on the sofa, the other half on the carpeted living room floor. Breathing hard, she lay with her head on a sofa cushion, her light hair covering her face like a pile of hay thrown over her head. “Are you okay, mom?”

She lifted her head and shook hair out of her light brown eyes. “Quite okay. Wow! You’re a tough act to follow, Tristan. I almost feel guilty going out with this guy.” Slowly, she stood up like a woozy prize fighter, grabbing on to the sofa arm for support. Smoothing out her dress, she said, “I better get cleaned up before he gets here.”

She retreated to the bathroom, splashed water on her face and wiped her crotch. She laughed at the thought of facing her date and saying, ‘Excuse my messy appearance, but my son Tristan just fucked me not long before you got here.’ She figured he’d either laugh or look horrified. Once in her bedroom, she slipped into her pantyhose, then stood before the mirror on her dresser, spraying on a touch of perfume. While hooking on her pearl necklace, she began having second thoughts about this date. Her former excitement for meeting this guy had cooled. Indifference had supplanted angst. She had his cell number; maybe she’d call to cancel. She had begun to explore the field of available men through dating sites and referrals because she knew that one day she’d once again want a long-term, “meaningful” relationship, one that fulfilled her emotionally as well as sexually. But was she ready for that now, now that she was engaged in a sexual relationship with her own son—and so soon after he had jack-hammered her into orgasm? She stared at her reflection, took a deep breath and shook her head no. It wasn’t fair to this guy or her. Too bad; she looked damn good, if she did say so herself.

Grabbing her cell, she punched in his number, hoping he’d answer. He didn’t; she got his voice mail. It figured. Didn’t anyone answer their phone anymore? She left a message, told him she didn’t feel well and had to cancel. She began to undress when he called back. He was less than five minutes from her door, he told her. She could hear the disappointment in his voice. “Look, I apologize,” she said, “but you’re twenty minutes early. I was expecting you around seven. Anyway, I’m sick. Sorry. Perhaps some other time.” Not waiting for an additional reply, she hung up. She felt bad, but knew it was for the best, knew she wouldn’t be good company.

Keeping her pearls on, she slipped into a short nightie over a red thong and came into the living room. Tristan looked up in comic incredulity. “The pearls are a nice touch, mom, but it might be more appropriate if you keep your dress on.” When she told him about the cancellation, he said, “I hope I didn’t ruin your evening.”

She sat next to him and began rubbing his shoulder. “You didn’t ruin anything. Far from it. I found this guy on Match. There’s gobs of available men on that site. When I’m ready, I’ll pick another one.” She rubbed her hand over her crotch. “Meanwhile, I can’t seem to get enough of you tonight.” She took his hand and shoved it inside her thong. “Feel that.”

He shook his head and chuckled. “You’re not kidding. Okay, I can go another round, no problem.” He started to suck on her nipples, then stopped at the sound of the doorbell.

“Who the hell could that be?”Cara said. “Please get it. Nobody should see me dressed like this.” She scooted from the room.

Barefoot and still in shorts and T-shirt, Tristan trotted across the room and cracked the door. Standing on the porch was a man who looked around Cara’s age dressed in khakis and a tweed sports jacket. “Yes?”

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