I'll be a Mommy's Uncle!

Perverts 'R' Us

By DiscipleN ( m/F-f/M, inc, TS )

It was dull around the house after my father died. It was really, really boring. You never know what you're going to miss about a person until he's gone. I'll never miss his cocaine frenzies or the occasional flings he flaunted before mom, but my father was a pretty fun guy otherwise. I was pretty young to be certain of my memories of the time he spent with me, but I know I was never bored. When I turned eleven, it seemed like the three previous years without pop were one eternal drag after another.

You see my mother was very strict and proper, and she decided, soon after my birth, to ensure I never followed the outlandish path of my father. Curfew was instilled in me the day I left the crib. Sundown meant straight to bed, lights out, and no noise. I could play with friends, but only from after school 'til dinnertime, five o-clock. She dressed me conservatively, short haircut, comfortable brown shoes probably designed by the Amish, and she only bought starched white shirts and permanent press gray or tan trousers. I was drilled in every pleasantry and courtesy, and learned manners fit for a duke. In religion she was a tad more flexible, Methodist or Southern Baptist. She took me to both every Sunday.

You begin to see my father was my only example of rebellion. After his death, mother threw out the TV and radios. She edited the newspaper with scissors. If I dared to cross my mom, she'd cross two lines on my butt! Father knew what he was doing when he stole me from my room late at night and sneaked me into an R-rated movie. He wanted me to experience the things that normal kids find when they're not looking, weird corners of the universe. He took me to bars, (but he didn't let me drink). He showed me risqué old French postcards, (but nothing showing pussy). He dragged me to his friends' house where rather wild parties would erupt, (but he made sure I was off limits.) I learned a lot about the life mother would never let me lead, with a respectable amount of restraint.

Unfortunately, neither mom nor dad realized what their yin and yang influence would create. I can sum it up in two words. Frustrated adventurer.

Why they didn't divorce or separate continues to puzzle me. I can only guess mom really believed in her marriage vows, until death do they part. I know now she was furious at him for exposing me to excessive behaviors, but she never contradicted him or argued with him. She was the perfect, obedient wife. As for father, I have to guess a little harder, but maybe mom was the best piece of ass he had ever encountered. If he had a fetish for women with girdles and wire bras, mom would be his goddess. I mean, look at her, my mom could have been a champion breeding mare for kings. She was elegant, stylish, and trim but full-bodied. Her long hair signaled dark sensuality in a breeze, and passionate brown spice in a wind. Her face could bring back a thousand ships.

Pop died in mom's arms from a brain aneurysm, dick in her pussy, snowy powder dotted around his nostrils. I still imagine him cumming in her in a last effort to impregnate her chemically repressed womb. Mother naturally freaked out. Years after her husband's death, she still wore black and never dated. She hadn't loved her husband for most of my childhood, but the widow's godhead was a powerful station in life. She could live independently, act unquestioned in society, and be my mother warden full-time.

In my eleventh year, my adolescent adoration of parental figures was down to the fumes. Normally, you need to be a teenager to experience angst's full power of domestic revolt, but I had two things to assist my transformation from child into underaged demon. First my growing deification of my memory of my father, and second, my growing hard-on.

I noticed the connection one day, when mother was in the backyard, hanging the wash. We had a washing machine, but not a dryer in those days. I had turned eleven about four months prior, and I was handing her clothespins and helping raise the larger linens. A wind suddenly kicked up and knocked a quilt into my mother. She fell upon the grass and twisted her wrist. She yelped in pain, but stoic she was, she turned her pain into anger against herself.

"Foolish woman, can't keep to your feet!" And she abruptly punished herself by lifting herself to her feet using only her injured arm.

Standing next to her, I tried to assist her by grabbing her shoulder and lifting. All I managed to do was tug her black blouse and beige bra strap over her shoulder and down upon her arm, just as she was using it, most painfully, to regain her feet.

"Ow!" she yelled and fell back once more upon the grass.

I knelt to assist her.

"Calvin, don't touch me!" She muttered and held her re-injured wrist in her good hand. The pain diverted so much of her attention, she failed to notice the one thing that would have caused far greater distress.

Her left tit had fallen out of her blouse. Apparently when I helped raise her, I pulled her dress enough to snap two top buttons, and when she flounced back on the ground, the bra was pulled just far enough to jettison its heavy but flexible cargo. My mother's tit spilled out of her dress like a sack of wine off a donkey cart.

I suppose most children, upon accidentally glimpsing a naked breast, would be more than a little curious about the sight. Even little girls might stare or even point, as children are always extraordinarily aware of everything different about adults. It's our most valuable tool for preparing ourselves to become them.

As for myself, I was flabbergasted! I had seen naked tits in the era of my father when I was seven years old, either in a film or casually at one of the wild parties he took me to. I originally reacted with the innocent curiosity I mention above. By my second year of exposure, curiosity had faded out of sufficient familiarity. However when I was eleven, the idea of a naked breast meant something all together new. It triggered a dozen half-memories of wanton women from dad's favorite R-rated films. I had yet to see pussy, but tits were my ignorant idea of what sex was all about, hidden but plain to see. Just like the hard prick that was suddenly stuffed in my summer shorts. The concept matched my emotions of the time; powerful urges desperately kept in check out of fear.

I think my mother became aware of her bare breast and my jutting cock at the same time. She broke every expectation I'd learned about her when she shouted, "Go to your room and masturbate, why don't you!" She covered her exposed nipple with her elbow, but didn't otherwise try to replace the tit into her blouse. Her injured wrist must have been throbbing.

Naturally, I was incredibly timid about my mother's controlling power, and I hopped to, running straight into the house and down the hall to my room. I did not jack off. I knew mother hated the act, not that it normally stopped me, but on that day my guilt about it was too strong to overcome.

At dinner, that night, mother had fully regained her composure and acted as if nothing extraordinary had happened, other than the cream colored brace that contrasted with her pale wrist. That she didn't assign scads of extra chores to punish me was a particular relief for my guilty conscience.

Now I honestly believe my mother loved me as good mothers do, but her love was expressed in classic puritanical values and action. Hard work, proper discipline, and attention to cleanliness filled my days outside of school. Mother was otherwise unable to express her devotion to my upbringing. When she touched me it was to correct me. Consequently, I touched her only when formality required it.

My early fantasy life had all but excluded her during what I thought were my private jack off sessions in my bedroom. Father once told me about boys who pumped their erect penises with their hand, but he didn't ever demonstrate it. In my late ninth year, I was first reminded about his casual and guilt-free mention of male masturbation when I woke up with hard-on that spoke to me. I'll remember those first feelings of sexual desire for the rest of my life. They were strong and new and unnamed. I wanted something but didn't know what. My hard dick felt oddly alive in a curious way. If my father hadn't described how some boys would take their penis in their hands and massage it, I would never have figured it out by myself. I took to it like a tot to candy. Because the act was associated with my father, wild horses couldn't have dragged out a confession of it to my mother. It was she who had dragged it before me.

In one day, I had witnessed something I could never have imagined. My tyrant goddess had exposed my greatest, guilty secret. Mother knew I was wanking my prick! On that day, my brain must have wired it's last circuit in its sexuality lobe. Soon after 'the incident' I did try jerking off to the memory of my mother's naked tit. I immediately discovered that I could orgasm at a new level, remembering mother lying in the grass, her long black skirt splayed out like a blanket, her upper blouse in disarray, and her full breast pressed out into the clear sun. I came with spurts of proto-cum for the first time in my life. Quickly thereafter, I became intent upon seeing her tits again.

Just how does a young boy go about exposing his mother's body? There are more than enough fantasies about mind control, drugs, blackmail, and psychological weaknesses that allow precocious boys to get into their mother's skirts and brassieres and girdles. But in reality there is no chance in hell a male child is going to get his mother to strip, let alone put out, unless that boy hadn't yet heard any of them.

Think about it. My joys in life were limited. I couldn't even piss standing up. From an early age, mother had commanded that the only way to avoid dirtying the rim of the toilet bowl or the bathroom floor mat was to sit and stick "it" in the bowl - "it" being my young little cock. One day, after a lifetime of fear that mother would kill me for knowing how and loving to jack off, she yells at me to do just that. Multiply that with discovering my best wanking fantasy of all, and you've invented monomania.

I promised myself, admittedly foolishly, that I would figure out how to see my mother naked whenever I desired. If only desires were fulfilled by simply desiring them, there would be peace everlasting in this world, hah! I came up with a plan. It was a stupid plan, as you'll learn. But stupidest thing about it was, it worked.

Mother never mentioned masturbation or her naked breast after the event. I thought of them continuously. On a sunny day, during a particularly silent lunch, I asked her, "Mom, can I wear your clothes?"

Mother stopped chewing and swallowed. "No. Finish your cream of spinach."

"Why mommy? I hate wearing the same old white shirt and these stupid pants. All the other kids get to wear whatever they want."

"All the other kids are going to grow up to be drug addicts." She took a modest bite from her sandwich.

"Humph!" I snorted. It was the same thing she said whenever I mentioned how different we were from the rest of our neighborhood. According to her, everyone else either lived in, or was headed towards living in, despair and ruin.

That was round one. Score one for mother.

A week later, I asked her. "Mom can I wear your shirt?"

"It's a blouse. No."

"I hate this shirt." I told her again.

"We don't hate anything in this household, Calvin. Hate is evil. Got that? Besides, you don't hate that shirt, you're simply tired of it."

Round two: 2 points for mother.

Another week passes.

"Mom, can I wear your dress?"

"No. Dresses are not for boys."

"If you can hide that weird top thing under your dress mommy, why can't I hide this awful shirt under it?"

Mother didn't say anything for a second. She'd never heard anything so outlandish and crazy.

"Calvin, I want you to stop complaining about your shirt. We don't have enough money to buy you new clothes." My mother was a clever soul. She easily figured out I had an ulterior motive for my stupid requests.

"I know, that's why I want to wear your clothes!" I shouted. Mother was less able to fathom logic out of nonsense.

"Shout one more time, and I'll paddle you." She defaulted.

Round three: 3 points for mother.

A week later I came into to dinner wearing one of her gray sweaters.

"Calvin, take that off at once." Mother barely raised her voice.

I resisted. She repeated her order, her un-amused expression didn't flinch.

I unbuttoned the soft wool garment and pulled it off my arms. My thin, hairless chest was naked beneath it.

Mother's eyes remained emotionless. She got up from the table, grabbed me by the ear, and hauled me into the living room. She paddled my ass long and hard.

Round four: 4 points for mother.

On the fifth week, mother opened my bedroom door and confronted me. "Calvin, what have you done with my blouses?"

The answer was simple. I had taken them all out of her dresser and closet and piled them at the foot of my bed. The result was much more interesting than the act. Mother stood in my doorway, light streaming from the bathroom behind her, wearing only her skirt and a bra. She walked across the room as if they were her normal garb and plucked up the pile of blouses. My eyes grew wide as soup spoons staring at the cream colored nylon supporting and concealing her bountiful tits. If only I could have pulled my cock out right then I would have spurted out my increasingly milky cum far enough to soak her thick, conservative undergarment.

"I'll see you in the living room in two minutes."

Round five should have gone to me, but my resulting backside was so red and sore, I'm not sure it was even a tie. 4 and 1/2 points for mom. Half a point for me.

--- 2 ---

My littlest victory was so sweet, stripping mother down to her bra, I didn't wait another week. Three days later, just about the time my bum was able to sit down in a hard chair again, I stole her skirts.

Mother retrieved her clothes straight away, this time wearing only her blouse and a heavy cotton girdle. I wasn't nearly as excited by this state of undress as a more experienced boy or man might have been. Yet I didn't miss the shape her full-length, black stockings assumed. If Pepsi had made their bottles in the shape of my mother's legs, Coca-Cola Corporation would be a penny stock today. My goal however, was motivated by my memory of one of her naked breasts. I'd never even heard of cunt. If I succeeded in exposing both of her nursing bottles to me, I would title myself Calvin the Conquerer. Her tall, sturdy girdle left far too much to the imagination. Her reaction to my second theft left none.

Expecting the worst, I awaited her in the living room 'in one minute'. Mother entered and sat down beside me on the couch. She had not put on a skirt to conceal her dove white girdle. Her semitransparent stockings smoothed over each of her legs without run or blemish.

"I'm not going to beat you again Calvin. This strange obsession of yours has me worried, and I want you to know that I will try whatever it takes to cure you. Obviously, physical punishment has failed." She left the conversation open-ended.

Take off your bra mommy, and let me jack off all over your tits, and I'll be fine, I heard the base of my skull comment. I sniffed to conceal my internal chagrin.

"But mommy, all I want to do is wear your blouse." I tried pouting.

She looked at me strangely.

"Calvin," Mother asked me very slowly. "Do you wish you were a girl?"

"No!" I blurted, then I hesitated, "I-I don't think so." I suddenly wondered if there was an answer that would move her closer to my goal. Unfortunately, my first outburst came from a straight boy's natural commitment to his sex. Fortunately, I shrouded my words with a shred of doubt. Unfortunately, I was sporting the hardest erection my pants ever had to contain.

"It isn't right for a boy to want to be..." She glanced down at my zipper. "...be uh, something other than uh, a boy." Her voice fell to a whisper. "But sometimes God has reason to confuse us." Her eyes confronted mine patiently. They held no shame at their brief distraction at my erect dick.

"What does God want me to be?" I tried to play the innocent, striving to casually cover my lap with my hands.

"He wants you to be good and not steal your mother's clothes."

Round Six: Mom - 6, Calvin - Zero. I guess she'd earned the previous point too.

Round seven didn't happen for another two weeks. My mother's reaction had blown me away. Still, I didn't let pass that brief moment when mother noticed my hard cock tenting my pants. It was important, I knew it instinctively, but having only an upper body centric eroticism I was unable to understand either her glance or her willingness to wear underwear right next to me.

I acted without purpose or plan when round seven finally occurred. One early morning, I got up to use the bathroom, but mother was showering. My piss hard-on wasn't desperate so for some reason I wandered into her bedroom where I found her clothes neatly laid out on her bed. I picked up the bra and wrapped it around my chest, but I didn't fasten it. I simply held it together behind me. I didn't even put my arms through the straps. They fell down against my belly and sides. I was imagining her breasts filling this inexplicable contraption, not my own flat chest. After a few moments I returned the bra as closely to its original place as I remembered. I turned to her less fascinating, but still intriguing girdle. I picked it up.

"Go ahead and try them on." Her soft voice surprised me. Mother had entered the room behind me.

I turned around, ready to bolt through the door, but her quiet composure reassured me. She was wearing three towels. I was wearing my jockey shorts.

"Uh, I guess I don't really feel like it." I fumbled once again.

"Okay, that's fine." She nodded plainly. "Now scram. Mommy has to dress."

Exactly one week later, I asked her again.

"Mom, can I wear your clothes?"

Mother looked surprised for the very first time. "Calvin, what do you really want? Can't you just simply ask for that?"

I very much wanted to ask her to strip naked for me so I could beat my rampant cock in front of her and spew my cum, hopefully dousing her with it, drenching her with my cum. Instead, I asked her an even stupider question.

"Can I wear those clothes?" I said, and I meekly pointed at her widow black, extra plain blouse.

"Do you mean, the clothes I'm wearing right now?" Mother asked apparently beguiled by the possibility. Later on, I learned that she never considered the idea that her son just wanted to strip her naked. That sort of motivation wouldn't have occurred to her. Not only was she a prude herself, she naturally assumed that I was sufficiently indoctrinated and far too young to harbor anything but innocent evils. Instead, she had constructed an entirely different rationale for my requests to wear women's clothes. She thought her only child was confused about his gender or possibly his sexual orientation. Mother didn't know what to make of my more specific request. "This?" She queried and plucked at her upright collar.

I nodded meekly.

She just looked at me, incredulous. A few eternal moments later, an odd gleam lit in her eyes. "Calvin, do you wish you were the mommy?" Evidently she had been extremely careful before wording her question.

The idea never occurred to me. Why would I want to be a mommy? I could easily see myself as the new daddy in the house, but her question was so strange, I had to consider it, and all that she might have not been asking. Even if I was the last boy on the clue boat, nothing could have stopped me from grabbing the tiller.

"Would you let me be the mommy?" I asked as cautiously as cats stalking a baby bird fallen out of her nest.

My mother should have hesitated, right then. She should have at least let her lip tremble. She continued to meet my eyes.

"What would you do if you were the mommy?"

I'd send you to bed without any clothes, tie you up, and fuck your sweet tits! My hard-on was merciless with possibilities. My eyes cast low and I paused for frantic thinking. What could I do? Suddenly a whole world of possibilities opened up before me, but I was far too inexperienced to be handed the keys to the kingdom of heaven.

"I-I dunno." I had to say something.

"Don't ask about my clothes again until you know." She shut the conversation down with a knife.

Round seven: Mother scores again.

As scary as our last round had wound up, I was ready for another by the following week. We had been working in the yard that day, and both of us were sunburned. The house was hot and one tablespoon of butter each was our only relief.

Mother still wore her plain black dress. It was somewhat soiled with grass and earth. I had on a pair of cutoffs and an old, worn out, short-sleeved, white shirt. My arms felt like they were about to shrivel up from heat and fall off. Before I knew it I began the next round.

"If I were you, mom I'd make you do all the work out there."

"Would you now?" She looked up, unimpressed. Working hands intimidate the devil.

"I'd make you wear stupid clothes and tell you when to go to bed and decide what to eat and when to go to church which would be never." I was in a bit of pain and feeling sorry for myself. I looked at my feet. I half expected her to step over and slap me.

When she didn't, I looked up and that weird, cautious expression had scrunched her face. This time I was ready for her, or so I thought.

"Mom, can I wear your blouse?" I asked as calmly as I could manage. Already my young prick was hardening. I continued to imagine her unbuttoning her top right in front of me and exposing her wonderfully filled bra.

"You want to wear this blouse?" She asked in return, pulling out the middle of her top into a tiny tent that could have fit four times in the tent in my shorts.

"Yes mommy."

"Would that make you the mommy then?" She asked again.

"Uh-huh." I nodded.

"Well... okay." She said, and then, right before my eyes, her fingers began working at her buttons. It took her all day to unfasten every one, but in reality it took about a minute. Their tiny, tight black dots were finicky to undo. The smooth material began to sag and lower and the vee at her neck opened wider and deeper.

One minute later, my mother stood a step away from me, almost entirely bare above her skirt, with only the thick frame of a brassier shielding my ultimate fantasy from my eyes. She held out the blouse.

I crossed over to her and accepted it graciously. "Thank you."

I began to don the loose fitting garment. It was clearly cut to fit a woman's shape. It hung unkempt over my shoulders and cast rumples down my arms. The front dangled like loose cloth. I remember how soft it felt, like silk, but it was probably rayon. The thing that unsettled me was the smell. I had never before noticed my mother's smell, until I wore her blouse. Like impending rain or the fresh upturned earth that dotted the garment, her smell was everywhere infused within the threads. I stood nearly stupefied by its heavy bouquet.

"What does it make you feel like, honey?" My mother asked when all was in its improper place. She then noticed the bulge in my shorts. If she had noticed it before I wore her clothes, she might have said something entirely different. But its extended glory seemed to settle something for her.

"I feel okay." I told her. Mother ignored my default answer. Apparently, she decided right then I was simply a transvestite, a man who got his jollies from dressing up like a woman. She seemed disappointed.

"Can I wear that too?" I asked overeagerly and pointed at her jutting bra.

"I think we've worn enough of mother's clothes for one day." She had collected herself and answered firmly. Then she left the living room for her own. The last I saw of her naked upper flesh was her pale back, smooth and nearly unblemished. I raced to my room and blasted the contents of my balls at the ceiling.

Round eight: game called due to rain.

The next week I tried a different approach. When I sought her I was garbed entirely in her clothes. She sent me packing, no questions asked.

"Get out of those right now, young man!" She pointed at her bedroom door from the living room couch.

Round nine: 9 to nothing. I had begun to accept the inevitable.

--- 3 ---

Two weeks later, I made a final, halfhearted attempt. I walked out of my morning shower, towel firmly gripped around my waist, and up to my mother's bedroom door.

"Mom, do you have any clothes for me?" I asked across that most evocative of barriers.

"Just a second, Calvin." Mother answered.

I waited.

She opened the door, freshly dressed and stood in the doorway empty-handed.

I tried to not stare at her. She was not staring at me but was simply looking at her son with a calm expression on her face. Her hands reached up to her neck and she unfastened the first button.

I stood in utter fascination, immobile, nearly slack-jawed as my mother peeled her dress from her incredible body. This time skirt followed blouse and before I could pinch myself she handed me both, stark naked but for black stockings, white girdle, and cream colored brassier. For a kid like me it was as stark naked as I was standing in front of her wearing one towel. Fortunately this time, when I took her things, I used them to block her curious glance at my loins. A tent had formed there about the time she'd released her middle buttons.

Apparently pleased with her success, she turned away and retired into her room, shutting the door behind her.

I walked like a zombie to my room where I recovered enough sense to drop her clothes, discard the towel and grab my aching prick! I blew several wads into the towel and collapsed on my bed. When I finally escaped my room, I was wearing both of my mother's clean things, struggling to keep from tripping over the oversized skirt. I tied it in a knot to keep it on my waist, and the blouse was tucked in firmly, stretching flat its slackness wherever it would.

I found mom in the kitchen, sitting at the table. She was wearing only her bra, girdle, and stockings.

"Good morning, mommy." She greeted me. I immediately sensed her unease. I didn't know it at the time, but we weren't we playing my game anymore. I was playing hers.

"Uh, hi." I returned awkwardly.

"I made my bed this morning and washed and even brushed my teeth. I hung the towels up to dry, and I filled the washer with my dirty clothes." She informed me in a meek, girl's voice.

"That's uh, real nice, eh, dear." I tried.

"What should I do now, m-mommy?" Her speech quickly degenerated.

What the heck was going on? I didn't know what to say. If I hadn't just jacked off three times, I might have tried to get more of her clothes, but I must have been blessed that day.

"Maybe you'd better go study your lessons." I suggested. It was what mother always told me to do when I had failed to occupy myself sufficiently. The mistake I made was, my mother wasn't taking any classes.

She surprised me then.

We have a piano in our house. It's an old wooden upright, made cheaply in its time but is probably somewhat valuable as an antique. It was never tuned nor played as far as I knew, but it made a great shelf for ceramic knickknacks. My mother rose from the table and went into the living room. After overcoming no little worry about my mom, I followed her.

She removed everything from the keyboard cover and folded it back, exposing yellowed and black faux ivory. Then she lifted the lid on the bench seat and produced an even older looking sheet of music from the bench's contents. I didn't have to look at the sheet to know what it said. I was a kid and peeked into the bench seat regularly. That music was titled, "The Merry-Widow Waltz."

I didn't know my mother could play the piano. When she began, she was sitting on the bench, posture perfect, striking keys and beating time very much like the score intended. Soft and melodic, her music caught me more than by surprise, it caught me like a mercy trap meant for small animals. I'd walked right into it, and the entrance had shut delicately behind me. For the rest of the morning I listened to my scantily clad mother relearn how to play the piano.

Eventually she looked up at the clock and said sweetly. "I'm hungry."

I wouldn't have known noon from sunset. While I originally wanted to just stare at her gorgeous, naked figure, I became entranced by beauty unexpected. I failed to answer her. Her music still danced in my head.

When I didn't reply, she told me in her full, adult voice, "Calvin, maybe you'd better take those clothes off."

Round ten: no contest.

The day left me with a lot to think about and several reliable hardons that blew geysers. All this time I thought I had been really clever, lucky, and downright evil. But now, everything was changed. I wasn't stripping my mother so much as she was transforming both of us. Outside of having dressed me in her clothes and act like a little girl, mother remained the same. We went to church, she ironed my stupid white shirts, and I felt trapped in a childhood without much joy other than jacking off and now trying to figure out when I could get mother to disrobe again.

My next chance occurred sooner than later. Not quite a week after mother played the piano, I brought up the subject.

"Mom, would you play the piano for me?"

"Absolutely not, Calvin. Music is a vehicle of the Devil's will." It was like she had never played. Therefore, I followed a child's logic.

"Can I wear your clothes again?"

"Why would you want to do that?" She asked indignantly.

"Uh, so I could be the mommy?"

She didn't say anything after that. She gave me a curious look then scanned down the length of her black dress and returned her eyes to me.

"Did you mean these clothes?" She gave a nod indicating her luscious body.

"Yes, mommy."

"Ask me again, a little later." And that was that.

Round... heck that wasn't a round. It was an intermission.

The next day I asked her again. We were playing a game of scrabble at the kitchen table.

"Mom, what's that thing you wear under your blouse?"

"It's my bra, Calvin." Mother always answered a straight question. You just had to be careful about what question to ask. Once I'd asked her about masturbation. She looked me in the eye and told me it was a one way ticket to hell. My dad was still alive to console me back then, and afterward I never asked mom another question about sex.

She placed a new word on the board. "'Suffrage', double word score, thirty two points.

"Can I wear your bra?"

Mother finished writing down her score. She was about a hundred points ahead of me. She looked up and asked, "You want to wear this one?" She pointed offhandedly at her chest.

"Yes mommy, very much so." My heart raced at the thought she might take it off in front of me. I again had rushed her.

"Uh, let's finish the game, okay?" Her voice seemed to falter from its usual precision confidence.

So we did. We finished the game. She beat me by a hundred and fifty points, and she congratulated me on how high a score I'd earned. She kept track of my game points after every game so I could see my improvement over time. It was a lesson I wish I had learned around that time. I wasn't playing a game against my mother. I was playing it against myself. Mother had a private reason for playing.

After she helped me put the game away, every tile stacked neatly in the box, she ambled into her bedroom. I wandered around the house until I found myself studying the living room bookshelves for something to read.

"Calvin, come here." Mother commanded out of her bedroom. I walked down the hall and knocked once.

She opened the door. Standing very straight and tall, her bedroom light cast her shadow upon me in the dimmer hall. "I want you to know I'm absolutely against this."

"What mother?" I didn't understand what there was to be against. She'd just commended me on a good scrabble score.

"This." And with concern set fiercely in her dark face she seemed to be betrayed by her hands. Once more, they reached to the collar of her dress and began to unbutton it. I stood confused before her while she stripped, as I was too young to comprehend an internal struggle. What I saw was my mother's stern expression melting away as she efficiently unfastened her dress. Before I could speak, she was pulling the blouse off her arms, her sturdy bra jostling and bobbing. My eyes bobbled in response. My young male member awoke and pressed it's case against my pants.

When mother handed her blouse to me, she dropped it in my waiting hands with a last snort. My mother was very stern and strict, but she had never snorted before! Finally, it dawned upon me. Mother was only half finished. Her arms reached around behind her pale torso and began to wrestle with the clasp of her bra.

I felt my breath leave my lungs. My dick flounced once, sort of like a dog rolling over and sitting up straight as a arrow aimed at the waiting bone. It was everything I had dreamed of.

The straps behind fell suddenly at her sides and her breasts, captured within, pushed the large cups out farther but fell lower. Mother had closed her eyes. She shrugged her shoulders, once, twice, and both upper straps fell to her arms. Her bra nearly fell off. Mounds of tit flesh poured out from behind their cage. The grand valley between them opened for the first time to my view. My eyeballs sucked in their glorious revelation. I almost reached for my rock solid cock.

"Turn around." Mother ordered, and I complied. I was well conditioned to heed mother's commands. My expectations crashed hard. I turned my head around last, attempting to burn the nearly bare sight of her fabulous mounds into my retinas. I closed my eyes to view their shadows cast upon the inside of my eyelids.

I heard my mother step up behind me. I prayed to god and the devil that she might brush her naked tits against my back. I would have cum in my pants if she had.

Instead, she reached under my arms and placed her brassier around my chest. She guided my arms through its gigantic shoulder loops and quickly fastened its slack back strap behind me. I had to drop her blouse on the carpet while she tucked my slight body into her large bra. Upon completion, she pressed on my shoulder to turn me back around.

The first full view of my mother's naked breasts was in close-up. My eyes were only three inches higher than her nipples and less than an inch away. They poked out at me like curious antennae. I inhaled and nearly fainted. I wanted to kiss them so badly! I wanted to suck on them and run the length of my tumescent prick around their bulges. I would have laved them with clear pre-cum and drowned them afterwards in dazzlingly white, opaque jism.

Mother said in her quiet, intermediate voice, "Let's get the rest of you together." She leaned down and picked up her black top from the floor. I almost fell over following the sight of her pale but firm bosoms. A minute later my mother, totally naked from the waist up began to fasten the buttons of the dress she had carefully stripped off of her own skin.

I stood just outside her door, now dressed in her upper garments. Mother very quickly followed with her skirt. She held it open upon the floor and bade me, step into its waistband. Soon she was tying it tight to my waist. Clad only in her black transparent stockings and her flat, white girdle, she returned to her room.

She walked away from me for a couple steps then stopped dead still.

"Mommy, would you read a bedtime story to me?" She asked in a very small voice.

At first I nodded, unable to respond so quickly to her transformation. It was a pointless gesture as her back was turned to me. My thoughts were clogged with visions of breast-feeding at my mother's tits.

"I-I guess so." I stammered. "Yeah, um, what would you like to hear?"

"My favorite is, Hippolyta the Amazon Queen." She went to her personal bookcase and retrieved a book of Greek stories. I entered cautiously, lest some new twist of character assaulted me. My mother's black skirt caused me no end of concern for tripping and falling.

Naked, my mother returned holding out the book to me.

I nearly dropped it as I continued to stare at her unclad breasts. If only I dared to touch them, but my heart knew that was not allowed.

My most fond dream was quickly becoming a nightmare. I could look all I wanted, but one touch might have lost it forever. My cock didn't know the difference and tried desperately to leap from my loins and bury itself between her tits.

After an impromptu impression of Charlie Chaplin, I secured a grip on the book. Mother went to her bed and slid under the covers. I followed and sat on the edge of her bed. Fortunately the room was warm, and she didn't cover up her stripped torso.

Warm? I was sweating!

I opened the book and found the chapter list. As I began to read the story, my mother gained a very peaceful look in her eyes. I had never seen her so at ease. All throughout the reading, I would glance at her, mesmerized by her inner beauty, agonized by her lustful proximity. It was a terrible reading. I found many of the words and nearly all of the names unpronounceable.

"That was wonderful!" She told me, and before I knew it she had sit up and grabbed me. Up until this moment, my mother had never hugged me. I did cum in my pants, right then. Her naked flesh was only stopped from touching mine by her own clothing. "Thank you, mommy." She cried in her small voice, and she kissed me chastely on the cheek.

I held onto her for as long as she let me. The warm stain in my trousers turned cool. Fortunately, it didn't penetrate into the skirt wrapped loosely around it. I breathed normally for the first time next to my naked mom.

When she released me, I felt a new rush of emotions. I turned to envelop her in my own hug, but she had already changed the light in her eyes.

"Sorry honey, time to go to bed."

What round were we on?

--- 4 ---

After that night I pretty much knew when I could ask to wear her clothes. About once a week seemed to satisfy her. It drove me to near madness. I jerked off constantly, filling every scrap of cloth with cum, desperately alert for her next moment of naked availability.

About once a week, mother would strip in front of me and dress me in her clothes. Then she would proceed to act like a little girl who desperately needed love and attention from her mommy.

My own role in these games were so anti-altruistic, they were killing me. I lost no end of sleep frantic to put my hands on her in less than a loving way. It's fair to say I wracked my adolescent brains to discover a way past her innocent sweetness. At the same time, I was gradually responding to her overt show of affection during these events. I had begun to love my mommy/daughter, and sometimes I wondered if I was the little girl playing for attention from my nakedly erotic mother. I doubt the clothes had much effect on my untested masculinity, but our scenarios would have ambiguated Hercules. When my mother acted like a little girl, I knew the feelings of a protective father. When she looked into my eyes and called me mommy, I had to look twice to make sure I hadn't grown breasts overnight.

During her off times, when she was very much my mother, she never mentioned our debaucheries, but it became plain that she considered them bouts of evil she needed to purge from her soul. She worked harder than ever to make me an upright, god-fearing boy. I wasn't allowed to bring friends home, as only she was good enough company for me to find examples. I worked like a dog at the house, with my mother working twice as hard beside me.

It was when emotional and physical exhaustion set in her bones, did she slip from one personality to the next. On the days she stripped her body bare of her station and placed it loosely upon me, those were her days of rest. Naturally, they occurred more and more frequently on a Saturday. Sunday just wouldn't have worked out.

One Saturday, while we were drawing with crayons at the kitchen table, my cock was about to burst. For two hours I had watched mother pour over her drawing, naked tits brushing occasionally against the tablecloth. I felt like chewing on a book cover to keep my teeth from grinding. My own picture was filled with rape scenes of stick people. One particular figure was screwed again and again, always between her circles for tits. I drew crazily, but I had to be careful I didn't draw over my dangling black sleeves. My illustration was a rare pastime I could use to offload my growing sexual frustration. It wasn't enough.

"Look mommy, I drew a horsey!" Mother exclaimed and she held up her previously, carefully guarded paper.

Mother's horse picture was as fabulous as her piano playing. She had gotten really good, and her music was actually able to tame my wild beast. Her carefully colored and shadowed and lit figure of a lithe, paint horse gliding over a meadow could have won a prize for best crayon art of the year, out of the nation's professional crayoners.

"It's beautiful," I told her, trying to kept lust from eroding my voice.

When she hugged me, I lost all control. Her warm arms around my loose clothing, her plump tits pressed into my chest, her gleeful mewling in my ear unleashed the monster caged within me. My hand pulled up the skirt and fished cock from out of my pants. I jacked on my iron hard prick about a dozen times for every two seconds and kissed my mother on her bare neck as she held me. My free hand crossed between us and snapped at her closest titty.

Immediately, she released me and recoiled my frantic grab, adultly aghast at my action. She instantly composed herself for a blast of holier than thou, but not before my dick erupted with long jets of high pressure cum. White ropes shot between us and doused her girdle. She jumped away, scream piercing the air, and two more blasts arced over the table and sprayed her drawing.

"What in heaven's name are you doing?" She hollered most un-little-girl-like. "Get out of here right now! I'll see you in ten minutes, young man!" She drew herself high and mighty, indignation masking her awareness of her own nakedness. I watched her tits change from pleasant pillows to amazon armor.

I couldn't even respond until I had jerked the last of my cum load onto the kitchen's tile floor. Only then did I jump. I didn't look back. I raced for my room to ready myself for Armageddon.

When the hammer came down, I was still praying for a way to escape of this mess. Mother entered the room, totally concealed in a thick bathrobe.

"I have to have a good talk with you young man. How could you have betrayed your mother like this? You defiled the last thing that was good between us. I should abandon you to the state and join a Christian woman's retreat."

Her plea for sympathy fell on deaf ears. I wish I could have responded with a few blasts of my own, but I was just an eleven-year-old kid about to turn twelve. I curled up in a fetal ball on my bed. Mother's widow dress splayed across it like a death shroud.

I kept purposefully silent, pouting. Honestly, I believed everything she said. I felt I deserved everything she threatened. I just couldn't admit it to her, because deep down I knew she was just as responsible as I. Unfortunately kids rarely get the chance to examine their root motives.

Perhaps that is why, mother gave me another chance, or at least she said she would. "Calvin, honey. I know this must be very strange to you. You can't imagine how mixed up I feel about our little secret, but I'm as helpless to stop myself, as I imagine you are to ignore the devil that lives inside you. Nevertheless, you must fight against it. That is our only path to salvation, eternal vigilance and continual askance for forgiveness."

She worked ourselves harder than ever for the next six days. She even excused me from school to give me even more time to pay penance for our crimes. On the seventh day, she fell harder than ever from her lofty goal.

Mother woke me up from a desperately needed, deep, dreamless sleep. On my way to the surface, I began to dream of being suffocated, and I awoke gasping for breath. A thick pile of dark cloth buried my face. I scrambled around in bed and flung the offending threads off of me. Mother stood in my room, naked to her girdle. She wasn't even wearing her thick but slightly transparent stockings. The girdle was her last hold out. Of course the dark veils that had smothered me awake were her clothes. When I came to my full senses, I realized they smelled freshly washed, with only a hint of my mother's odor on them. She must have put them on in her room and immediately stripped them in mine.

"Wake up, mommy. Wake up! I need you so bad!" She cried like the little girl I had grown perversely familiar with. She rushed to my side to assist me in donning her mantle. My dick may have already have been hard in preparation for the morning, but now it was like steel. We had long realized that I was eternally erect while she played her escape role. We had psychically agreed not to recognize it.

I now wonder what would have happened if I had resisted her. I know I was stronger than her on that day. I could have resisted her temptation, but we must remember I was just a kid. Besides, she might have gone off the deep end if she didn't get her measure of relief from her inner conflict. What that conflict was I didn't discover until the end of my story. For now, I will tell you that I accepted her help. Yet while she fussed with how her clothes were arrayed on my naked form, I ceased pretending to ignore my blood filled cock. I would reach out and adjust it, right in front of her. I didn't actually feel like jerking to a cum, because I was still mostly asleep. She glanced at my fiddling between my thighs and tried to ignore it. I noticed she gently bit her lip. A light rain ran down my bedroom window.

Finally we managed to assemble her garb on my ill-fitting figure. She plunked her whole body down on my bed and nestled her head into my chest.

"I'm so sorry mommy. I've been really bad. Please help me." There she began to release a reservoir of tears. She quickly soaked her own blouse and skirt as she tried to bury herself deeper into them and my body.

"I held her. I had learned to love touching her. The little girl inside my mother was desperate for human contact. Me too, but most of my desperation originated from a fraction of my body's meat. Her soul was bereft of any comfort. I never learned about her childhood. She refused to speak of it. Whenever I asked she promised my childhood would never want for anything. She meant anything she decided that was good for me. I think my father once said she might have been a whore's illegitimate daughter. To this day, I sorta, kinda doubt it. I think she was abandoned within the confines of her parent's home.

I knew as long as I held her she grew strong in her heart. I held her for at least an hour that drizzly morning. I held her close against my never slacking prick. For some reason, that day I looked not at her breasts but at the wide patch of white that clung to her hips. Oddly enough, the sight of her beautiful tits trembling against my chest was not as compelling as the spike of curiosity that stabbed my imagination. Just what was there behind her plain, white girdle? It seemed odd to me then, that I had never before wondered. I wasn't old enough to have received the state's program of sex education. I never asked my mother anything about sex, and my father had left me a legacy of tits, ass, legs and face. He died before he was ready to talk about more serious parts. My mother had all of those others in spades, and only her ass was kept from me. I must therefore conclude I wasn't much of an ass man back then.

So when I spoke up at the end of our lingering hug, I knocked at a new door between us. I was fairly blunt for my age.

"Honey, I'm not sure I can be your mommy for real." I spoke plainly.

Her reaction was anything but plain. She recoiled like a rifle, jerking in my arms like a gun had been fired. She looked fearfully into my eyes, but she never broke character. "What do you mean, mommy? Of course you are." She tried to assure herself and me.

I let her notice my gaze upon her girdle. "Don't I have to wear that too?"

My mother kept still for longer than a moment. I actually felt her nudge my hard cock with her hip, where she was resting against it. She must have been near a panic about what could happen if she was truly naked before a son who had proved himself to be a sex maniac. But the woman that was my mother was a dozen miles away. It would take the rest of the day to gain enough comfort to allow her return.

My little girl gulped and trembled anew in my arms. She then nodded, unable to answer my question with a vocal assent.

All I did was sit up slightly, and she fell into the motion. She released me and sat up on the edge of my bed. Her feet fell to the floor. I watched her hesitate and gather her courage. She hooked her thumbs in the girdle's tight waistband and began to peel it slowly down her hips. Then as if a latch had fallen free, she pushed the gripping garment from her thighs and kicked them off her feet. It sailed across the room and out the door. With a sudden giggle, my mother turned to me and said. "Mommy, promise me you'll never wear that one."

What could I say? It was probably the only item of her clothes that wouldn't hang loose. I hugged her firmly then, almost a man's hug. And I reveled in her full nakedness. First I felt her nipples, uncharacteristically firm, press into my blouse. A photo finish second, I looked purposefully into my mother's loins. She blushed, but my little girl did not deny me. Again I wanted to touch her there, but I knew my limits. I released her and hung my head low to examine her new revelation as closely as I dared. My mother was dark-haired through and through. Her brown pubic hair was a thicket of briars wherein there possibly lurked br'er foxes. I couldn't discern any other features because she kept her legs together. I didn't think to pry them apart. I doubt I would have been allowed to touch her knees.

I placed my hand on her shoulder and met her eyes. She was now bright crimson, and she grabbed me for a reassuring hug.

We played all day at whatever game struck our fancy: lawn darts, Parcheesi, cops and robbers... The house was our playhouse. I was often distracted as we moved about, for I began to catch glimpses of some very interesting anatomy. Somehow I had known that between her legs I would not find a cock. Curiosity provoked my eyes to see what they could of the mysterious triangle that jungled my mother's loins. There had to be something fundamentally different about man and woman, and tits weren't quite up to the job. When I noticed the strange lines and lumps hidden in her dark thicket, I grew confident I had discovered the missing link. That night, I masturbated to relieve my backed up lusts, thinking about the new flesh that taunted me with its mysteries. I came with powerful bursts in my head and jets of juice from my cock.

We both were innocents, I striving to conquer my chosen mate and failing, while she sought successfully to escape her power and responsibility. It is the day I remember most fondly, when mother capitulated wholeheartedly and I relented my ardor. In days thereafter when my mother wore her garments, we both felt freer. She did not obsess over punishment, although she still believed our swap offended God in Heaven. She must have understood, like I did that day, that as innocents we could be wrong and forgiven at the same time.

--- 5 ---

This crystal period caught its first crack weeks later. I turned twelve, and for an entire day, mother acted as if she were the kind of mother I was to my little girl. She took me out to celebrate in child style. We saw a movie and ate ice cream in a parlor and danced at a street festival and rode on roller coasters and rode our bicycles. It was my best birthday, ever. That day was the peak of our joyous new lives. My stomach was full, my legs were tired, and my head was filled with contentment. When night fell and we rested on the couch sharing a coffee table book about race cars (one of my birthday presents), mother asked if there were anything else she might do for her birthday boy before he had to go to bed.

"Yes mother, but I don't think you'll like me if I asked you." I answered meekly.

Mother was no fool. She guessed what dangerous ground I would tread upon. "Then don't ask me." She said seriously. "Just say it."

"I want my sweet little girl, my darling daughter to wish me happy birthday." I said.

She was quiet for a moment. Then she began to sniff and whimper. Her eyes doled out painful drops of water, and then she let loose a flood. Mother's adult morals still wanted to eradicate the sick alter-ego that claimed her life once a week. Although her mind had made a truce with itself, that truce was dependent upon the right day. My birthday hadn't occurred on a Saturday.

"Honey, please try to forget about her. Today was the first time I let myself be like her without being her. I know we can let her go, if only you'll help me."

If my mother had been talking to another adult, she might have convinced me, but a twelve-year-old boy, even one who had tasted parental responsibility, is hardly very adult. Her tears moved me, but my own youthful selfishness prevailed. I didn't say anything. I just reached for my mom and began to unbutton her dress.

She turned slightly at my touch, hoping her flinch would give me pause. I did not. Her sobs grew to shudders, although her tears lessened. I wanted my daughter's blessings on this day, and I would not be denied.

I had trouble with the small, tight buttons on her blouse, but by the third one, it's difficulty lessened. I revealed the top of her bra and I continued. Already my youthful cock responded. I had to gulp mouthfuls of drool forming under my tongue. Her blouse fell fully open and I knew again the full mounds that filled it. I reached around, beneath her top and hugged her covered breasts while I sought the clasp behind her. I had considerable more trouble unlatching it, but as I fumbled behind my mother's back, I felt her shudders take a new form. At the time I didn't know it, but my white shirt was stimulating her tits through the bra's thick material. She was helpless to fight her body's reactions or me. It was a critical moment for her. During her transition from prudish mother to innocent girl, there was a time when she was neither. It was not a true personality but an amalgam. To become innocent, she needed to unwrap the binds of her strictness, but before she reverted to a girl, she had to cross that gap of years. In the middle, I found my chance of a lifetime.

Before I knew that I had succeeded, her bra clasp unsnapped and the two cones pressing into my young chest slackened. I felt the full softness of her titties behind them. Only they were fully soft. Two hard points jabbed through the now slack material. Before I attempted to fully remove both bra and blouse, I had to see my mother's erect nipples. I drew back and lifted the cream-colored breast pockets. Mother grew tense, realizing her transformation had been interrupted. Before either of her personalities could decide to rebuke me, I fell to her titty and sucked in the hard knob crowning it. At the same time, I came in my pants.

Mother's breath quickened and suddenly she was aware of feelings she had never before experienced. She had never felt the joy of breast-feeding. Her strict nature had required that I be bottle raised. These new feelings took time to examine and classify the evilness of their nature. My arms returned around her waist, and I hugged her and hugged her as I sucked on her tit. My cock spurted time and again, until she finally tore away from me and fled to her room.

I waited on the couch, for there was no where to run from her certain wrath. Yet when she did not appear, I went to her room and knocked once.

"I'm sorry mommy. Please forgive me."

"It's late Calvin. Goodnight." was all she said. I heard nothing else through her tall door. Eventually, I washed out the wetness in my groin and and went to bed.

Mother's puritan ethics returned with a vengeance. For an entire month, she worked herself and me to the point of exhaustion. She never allowed either of us enough energy to escape. Only when she collapsed, hoeing our fully replanted garden did we both rest. I helped her to her bed and fell asleep beside her.

When I awoke, I was already dressed in her black clothes. My shirt and pants had been stripped prior to changing me. From the electric clock on her chest of drawers, I learned nearly a day had passed. I heard a rustling nearby and turned my head. Mother sat fully naked in her chair at her dressing table. She was brushing her long hair in the mirror. She saw me rise from the bed in its reflection.

"Oh mother, come look what I found!" She exclaimed and twisted around in her seat.

I moaned lightly and dropped my bare feet to the carpet. Stabilizing myself on the mattress, I stood. I didn't answer her, stunned by my daughter's sudden reappearance. Still sleepy headed, I walked slowly to her.

She looked up at me with a smile, her hand waved at a row of glittering things on mother's dresser. There were lipsticks, and earrings, and powders, and tints, and bracelets and broaches. There was a necklace of beautiful fake diamonds and one of real pearls. There were brushes and files and combs and clippers. I'd never seen such luxury before. Mother must have hidden these jewels away, unable to bear their evil influence, yet unable to destroy their beautiful pleasures. Up until that time, I'd seen only a plain hairbrush there or a damp washcloth. The rich mahogany wood came alive from so many gold and silver and black cases.

For the first time, I noticed that my naked girl had already sampled the fruits from the collection. She wore a small gold chain around her neck and had applied a light red blush to her cheeks, possibly to hide her real blush behind it.

"Mother, I want you to look beautiful for me, today." She informed me and very quickly she stood and guided me to her seat, supporting me once when I tripped on her skirt.

"You want me to wear this stuff?" I asked incredulous. I sat down before I had decided what to make of this situation.

The little girl next to me laughed and leaned closer. She raised a tube of lipstick and pressed it to my face.

Every nuance of my past assault on her was repaid three times. I fidgeted, flounced, and sneezed, but before the stronger girl let me up, I was marked, highlighted, primped and dusted. I watched the mirror, dumbstruck and trapped, as my face took on unnatural colors and exaggerated lines. All in all it was a mess. My crayon drawings all looked better than my daughter's latest masterpiece. The poor results were really all my fault. If I had remained calm and still, who knows how I might have turned out? Yet for the entire nightmarish enhancement of my boyish femininity, my daughter looked extremely pleased with herself.

"There, you're perfect." She beamed and hugged me, careful not to rub any of her beautiful, pale skin against my face. I was free then, free to rush to the bathroom and scrub every streak off, but all I did was stand and return her hug. My daughter had returned to me and she had forgiven me.

We spent the rest of the day, it was a Thursday, cavorting around the house like to best friends. I remember then that I began to take more seriously my duties as mother. I began to give advice when I thought her girlish antics were too ridiculous.

"Don't take more than you can eat!" I told her at lunch. She had piled on her plate enough cookies to make both of us sick. I made her a ham sandwich and returned most of the cookies to the jar. For myself, I ate only one cookie with my sandwich and glass of milk.

That afternoon, mother and I were rolling around the floor, pretending we were trees in the forest, newly felled by the lumberjack. We bumped into each other and yelled together, "Log jam!" We laughed.

Then the big, little girl rolled into me again, her tits flying around and smacking in to my hip. I grabbed them only out of defense to push them away, but my own sexual protuberance had other ideas. I was as hard as ever, and although she and I had been ignoring it all day, I couldn't help but make the connection. My boner wanted to make a real connection. I fell instantly silent while mother's body continued to bump into my own.

"Log jam!" She shrieked playfully, until she realized my hands hadn't let go. They were pressing into her breasts, and they started kneading them. She grew quiet also, and flashed me a warning look.

I let go.

"Maybe we should get ready for bed." I told her.

"Okay," She agreed, solemnly. "First I have to clean your face. You have to use the right stuff. Soap and water aren't good enough."

She let me to her room, and sat me before her dressing table. Then she surprised me once more. She left me and went to her closet. From within, she grabbed a nightgown and quickly slid it over her full, naked body. It was a silky film of amber that clung to her breasts and hips like a shimmering force field. I'd never realized that clothes could make my dick harder than could perfect nakedness. Returning to me, she opened a drawer and withdrew several face cloths.

On the table before me were a couple different jars of cold cream. She opened them and proceeded very carefully to remove the horrible makeup that coated my face. Already, some of the colorful goop had been wiped way on the furniture and the carpet and bath towels. Already, I was dreading the return of my mother, after she found those messes. My daughter was very thorough, and I didn't budge until she had removed every last speck.

My face was now clean and clear, just a boy's indistinguishable features again, but my little girl wasn't finished with her mother. She stepped away from me and went to her bed. With a little hop she bounced on it's soft covers and twisted around. She slid to the edge and sat up.

"Mommy, would you come here for me?" She patted the quilt's wrinkles beside her.

Only slightly wary, I got up and sat down next to her dazzling figure.

She blushed deeply and tried very hard to look at me. I'd never seen my daughter so shy before. "Mommy, can I ask you something?"

"Uh-huh, sure honey." I shrugged, continuing to look through the gossamer glint of her nightie.

"Why do you have one of those?" Her nose wrinkled and she pulled her lips away from my direction.

"Have what?" I looked at my empty hands.

"No, that!" She pouted and pointed. She pointed right at my tenting penis.

It was my turn to get flustered. "Oh, um. Gosh, I..." I didn't know what to say. I had just assumed that my jutting dick was off-limits to our pretending. Except for the fact that I jacked off like crazy when my mother's naked body had been put back into her adult mind, I'd tried really hard not to think about it during our games.

What could I say. I was her son, and sons had cocks! I wasn't a mommy, really. Then all of a sudden, it occurred to me, what if I was her mommy, and I tried to imagine what it would mean if I was only pretending to be a boy.

I shook my head from the painful morass my brain had entered. That would have been pure insanity. My daughter's question remained. She was still pointing at the tall lump in my skirt, her blush deepening. I had to say something.

"Mommy doesn't know what it is either." Denial was always better than discussion, in a pinch.

"Can I look at it?" Was her next question. She hardly flinched before asking it.

I'm still amazed that I didn't shoot two balls full of cum into her black dress, right then. Here was the tantalizing full figure of my mother, all of her charms present, if thinly veiled. I was her son with a hard-on desperately trying to resist her innocent beauty. My cock jerked and I gulped noisily. "Golly, um I-I... okay." I shifted away from her slightly, but I turned my hips in her direction. The skirt drew farther up on the bedspread.

My daughter deftly lifted the edge of my skirt, and I felt it's soft weave brush up along my leg as she pulled it away. The peak standing firm in my loins tilted as she separated cloth from flesh. With a gentle toss, she flung the long piece of linen away and exposed my naked manhood.

"It looks like a cock, mommy." She put a sharp emphasis on the word, cock.

I could only sit there like a doctor's patient being examined.

"I don't like cocks." My daughter almost spit when she said it. She raised up to her full sitting height and waited for my response.

"You wouldn't hurt it, would you?" I grew understandably concerned.

"I don't know, mommy. Would it hurt me?" she spoke gravely. "All the other ones hurt me. I just don't like them. Why can't you have a cunny, like me?" She asked her final question, and to add emphasis she raised one leg higher on the bed and turned her wide hips towards me. She lifted the end of her nightgown and for the first time, I saw the shape of her sex.

I wanted to cum, looking at the beautiful, dark lips peeking out at the base of her pubic hair. My cock thumped between my legs and my balls churned, but something inside me clamped down like a vise. I knew I'd never have another chance to look upon it if I didn't say exactly the right thing.

"Sometimes, honey, God has reason to confuse us." I told her, but there was more I had to say. "We only have what we are given and should always try to make the best of it. Um, you see it doesn't really matter if you have a pretty cunny, and I have a mean ol' penis. What matters is what you do with it. I promise you - your mommy will never hurt you with her cock. I'll always let you tell me what I can and cannot do with it. Can you promise me something too?"

My daughter was plainly overwhelmed that I had learned the lesson that she once had, as my mother, mentioned to me. "What do you want me to promise?" But even as a little girl, my mother was wise enough to not offer her son a blank check.

"Can you promise that you'll let your mommy play with her cock, when she plays with you. I've already promised I'll never let it hurt you."

The person before me sat quietly while she considered my request. I saw her eyes change several times, between innocent and knowing.

"I shouldn't..." She spoke, not yet done with her thoughts. "But I bet I couldn't stop you no matter how much I wanted. After all, you are the mommy, and I'm just your poor little girl."

At the words 'poor little girl' my body unclenched and cum burst forth from my rampant flesh. The first white rope shot out across our open loins and splashed on her farther leg. Mother flinched at my sudden ejaculation, but this time she willed herself to remain passive. The second jet hit her squarely in her tangled triangle of dark fur. One rivulet of incestuous sperm dripped down to her pussy. The warm liquid tickled her and she shivered, while the rest of my juice spurted in weaker and weaker shots onto my upended skirt. The now, not so innocent little girl swiped her fingers up her crotch and caught my dripping cum. She wiped her hand on our skirt.

"I guess that wasn't too bad, but it's awful sticky stuff." My daughter frowned and stood up carefully. She wandered into the bathroom to clean up.

After the powerful orgasm subsided, I sat numb, unable to leave my mom's bed. Only when she returned and sneaked under the covers did she speak to me. "Mommy, please turn the lights out when you go."

I left and turned out the lights.

--- 6 ---

There were many days of unease that followed. Mother's little girl and I fell back into our routine of once a week. Only this time, when my cock threatened to spout off, I would jack on it and have a great cum. It was rare that I actually spilled onto my mother's naked skin, but not for not wanting to. I had to respect my daughter's wishes, and she really didn't like the nasty stuff hitting her. Still, her incredible body was the thing that turned me on the most, and the closer she was the more likely I'd shoot. Sometimes I didn't have a chance to redirect my load.

Mother, as an adult, never again acted like she had on my twelfth birthday. She reverted back to being strict and proper. I knew she wanted more than ever to eradicate the little girl who stole her Saturdays, especially since her son was now using the event for his personal sex fun.

One day my daughter and I fell asleep on my bed, and the next morning, mother woke up beside me. The sound that jostled me out of slumber was her sobbing.

"We can't go on like this." She perceived me rousing. "I'm going mad. I know I deserve to be punished, but why do you have to be dragged into the evil place with me? Why?" She wailed. She hadn't looked at me.

There was nothing I could say that would have solved anything, but her words struck me into thinking new thoughts. I'd never thought much about evil. I called myself that because that is what my religious community would have called my actions, but as a child would, I simply ignored a word that didn't really mean much to a child. Now I was at that age where my moral compass would be magnetized, and I had to ask myself. Was I risking an eternity of hell? Had I danced with the devil in my mother's naked and childlike state? What was the one thing I risked that meant so much to me? To a child, the answer is obvious, life. To me it was my mother. I knew my life wasn't in danger, and other than my mischievous sexual shenanigans, I was a good boy. Compared to the terrible life my father had given to his devoted wife, I seemed damn near angelic.

So the next, question had to be, why did my mother think she deserved to be punished? She was the most god-fearing person on the planet, and her other personality was as innocent as any child. I was the only evil in my mother's life. Yeah, evil like a nun with a run in her stockings. After consulting my vast internal bookshelf of bible stories, I determined a crock of stinking shit had been shat therein. Essentially, I was just a horny kid doing whatever it took to get a taste of tit. There was something very wrong with my mother's behavior, and I decided then and there to find the problem and fix it, no matter how things turned out. After all, doesn't 'fixing it' truly mean things will turn out for the better?

"Mom, I'll help you. I promise." I told her as earnestly as I could. She started crying harder and then still harder as I undressed myself from her clothes and left to take my morning shower.

She wasn't in my room when I returned. I was determined to make things right, but first I had to find out what really was wrong. I dressed myself in my sharpest white shirt and trousers. If only my father was here, maybe he could have helped me, but I surprised myself by dismissing the very idea. He was likely, still part of the problem. It was my first clue.

I could smell bacon cooking. I marched into the kitchen.

"Mother, why did daddy cheat on you?" I asked straight away.

"That's none of your business." She didn't even turn from scrambling the eggs.

"No it isn't, but I don't want to grow up like father any more. I want to grow up like you."

Occasionally, lightning can shoot out of a frying pan. Mother jumped up and nearly hurled the steaming skillet off of the stove. She didn't speak, but she did yelp.

"I remember how it was, when father was alive. He tried to make me into anything that wasn't what you wanted me to be. Mother, you have to tell me. What do you want me to be?"

There it was. Although I only knew it instinctually, my mother had never faced that question. She'd spent so much of her life trying to make me not be something, she'd forgotten about the something I should have been trying to be.

"Do you want me to be your mommy? Of course not, you know I only play that game because I get off when you're naked."

My mother simply couldn't respond to that. I was overwhelming her sanctity with crazy talk, the kind she desperately wished she could escape. It was my great fortune that day, that my mother was something more than my mother.

I continued. "I don't want to be your mommy. I want to be a daddy someday and have a real little girl. And I promise I'll never hurt her or cum on her or put her in a cage six days a week. What kind of mother or father is that? So tell me mom, what kind of person can I be?"

Mother began to sputter about doing right by God, keeping mind, spirit, and body clean, working hard, and all the same old horse shit. But for the first time she realized that a lot of it was crap, just a pile of scratched and dusty records spinning in her head. She'd forgotten, she was the one who'd set a needle to them long ago. And the reason she had had to play them was...

"Aaaahhh!!" Mother screamed and threw her arms out at me. "You're a man! You don't understand!! God, why have I been cursed with them?"

I stepped back as my mother, apparently, began to throw a fit. She jumped up and down. She screamed at me and screamed at God. She spun around and began to tear at her clothes. Her face was red and fierce and she ripped the buttons right off her blouse and tore at her tough bra.

I nearly jumped to stop her when she picked up a paring knife, but before I could react, she cut away the straps and flung the bra from her tits. Mother, naked from the waist up, sank to her knees and sobbed. She looked up at me.

"You can be anything you want to be, just don't be anything like my parents."

I felt my own tears churning inside my chest. They threatened to cloud my vision and pound in my ears. I couldn't stop them. Poor mother had become a wreck, and it was my fault. After playing with her for so long, I finally broke her, except she wasn't toy, and I had become something of an adult.

"Tell me, please mother, what happened?"

I watched her shoulders cringe and her face's sorrow turned into veiled rage. On her knees, she looked like she was ready to pray but with righteousness.

"One day, when I was eight years old, my father caught me playing in the closet with one of my girlfriends. We were playing doctor, but more than that I was pretending that my girlfriend was my mommy. I told her that she was a mommy doctor, and my girlfriend said okay, and she examined every part of me to make sure I was healthy. My daddy found me on my back with my legs spread open, the other girl was poking her fingers into my - my cunny, and I think I was having an orgasm.

"Father yelled at us and frightened my girlfriend away. Then he raped me. He raped me for almost two months before my mother found out and sent him to prison. Only my mother was sure that I had seduced him, and she abandoned me to a foster home. Later I heard that she had been arrested for prostitution. And after I grew out of foster care, I never looked for her. That wasn't my mommy. I wanted to believe my mommy loved her little girl. I told myself, I had the best mommy in the world until I was raped. I blamed myself.

"Calvin, I know why I do what I do. I'm not sick. I don't lose control. I don't have multiple personalities. Sometimes I have to force myself to become your little girl. I do it to punish myself."

"But why mommy, why?" My sniffles and whimpers continued. Maybe I still was just a boy.

"Because I'm evil, and I hated you."

I could have been shot with a gun. My tears abandoned me and I was suddenly, terribly concerned for my life. I stepped back.

"But you're my mommy. You have to love me."

"No Calvin, I don't. Not even the Bible says a mother has to love her son." She could see me backing away, but she didn't get up from her knees.

"Then, maybe you're not evil." I reached for a child's logic once more.

"I never wanted to hurt you Calvin, I wanted to ruin your life. I wanted to turn you into a sexually repressed, walking ghost of a man. That's why I pretended to be your daughter. That's why I'd take off my clothes and later shame you for masturbating. I wanted to turn you into the kind of man I never had to fear."

"It isn't just you, Calvin. You're just a boy. But boy's turn into men, and the only thing I know about men is their sex hurts."

"Then why did you marry daddy?" I asked, thoroughly horrified.

"I did it to punish myself. You see, there is another reason I fear and hate men, and I never admitted it to myself, but I now know, and accept the fact that the only loves in my life were women. That is my sin. God curse us all." She finished by picking up her ripped blouse and clutching it to her naked breasts.

I had finally stumbled upon my mother's darkest secret. She was a lesbian, and she hated being a lesbian more than she hated and feared men. No wonder she never contradicted father. No wonder she never complained about his adulteries. That evil paled in comparison to God's envy of the Moon. She was so ashamed of her sexuality, she felt she had to follow the man's lead just to ensure herself that she never crossed the line into immoral sexual perversion. Instead she transferred her hatred to her son, and promised to turn him into something she would never have to fear, a wimp.

"You were too strong. You believed in your father, too much. I couldn't make you hate him. That is, not until today. But something changed for me, Calvin. You did the one thing I never expected."

"What?"

"You were a better mother than my mother ever was." Again, my mother started to cry. "You're a God damned twelve year old, and you made me love you more than my mommy!" With that outburst she stood up and held out her arms. I rushed to her and leaned down to hug her. She kissed me on my forehead. It was wonderful, but slowly my darker region asserted itself. Warm blood filled me, and my cock pumped itself full. Its desire erected me as well, tall above my mother.

"Am I still your mommy?" I asked her.

"Yes, baby." She couldn't look me in the eyes, but I believed her.

"Are you going to keep trying to turn me into a wimp?" I tried to sound angry.

"No... mommy." Her voice fell quiet and meek.

"Then drop your blouse and let your mother see your tits."

My mother did look into my eyes then, and with full knowledge of my lust, her clutches opened and the black, rumpled blouse fell to the kitchen floor. I think smoke began to rise from the skillet. I ignored the pungent fume of eggs starting to burn. I put my hands on my mother's breasts and fondled her nipples. They hardened under my fingertips.

"Take off your skirt for your mommy." I told her softly.

My baby girl blushed anew and put her hands to the black shroud around her body's altar. She pushed it down, white girdle revealed once more. The skirt fell to her feet.

"What is that?"

"That's my girdle, mommy."

"Little girls don't wear girdles. I don't want you to wear one ever again." I was really enjoying the feeling of my mother's firm breasts. My cock was already eager to be employed in their disgracing.

My daughter sniffed and nodded in wordless agreement.

Like a caterpillar, she wriggled her way slowly out of her white cocoon. A hairy butterfly emerged, and I found myself suddenly fascinated by the re-appearance of this place on her. It was the place in me that caused all my desire and delight. What effects did its dark clefts and ridges cause for her? I wondered. My cock seemed to know the answer, for it took over my thinking. I released one of her tits and reached into my mother's loins to feel the difference.

Her hips turned to shield her thatch, and then she bit her lip.

"You must obey me, now, or God will know your weakness. I need to teach you." I told her. "I am the only woman you can love that He will forgive." I was confident that in my tyrannical religion, giving tit to a son was a far lesser sin than lesbianism. Eight years of bible school hadn't been totally wasted.

"Yes mommy. I love you mommy." My mother squared her hips and brushed her cunt hair across my fingers.

I dived slowly into their thicket.

Mother hunched involuntarily at my touch, but she did not deny me. I parted her tight curls and fed my middle finger until it tasted slick flesh.

"What is this place, child?" I asked.

"I-It's my cunny, mommy. I use it to go pee-pee and..." Her voiced failed.

"And what?" I looked at her closer. Three of my fingers had found her moist ridges. I did not guess what else could be there. The peeing concept didn't actually thrill me.

"It's for babies." She whispered.

"What do babies use your pee place for?" I asked, suddenly grossed out. I knew very well, what babies did with their mommy's titties, but piss is hardly milk...

"...to - to come out of." My daughter's voice increased.

My boner slackened from disappointment. I knew what the size of my pee hole was. Dang, babies must be teensy-weensy when they're born! Without realizing it, I had lost my initiative over this apparently disgusting thing between my mother's legs.

"But how do they get in there?" How did I get in there, was my real question. My fingers seemed to sink a little further into her nest. Wetness coated them to my middle knuckles. Yiewww!

My mother's voice turned sour then. She wrinkled her face up real hard and nearly spit out her answer. "Cocks put them in there."

That is when I realized how long my mother had borne her hatred of my sex. I backpedaled from my original course.

"Uh, you gotta remember, I promised my cock wouldn't hurt you. Do you remember?" I was testing treacherous ground. My fingers ceased their reaching. I was more than a little worried about the origin of the wetness I'd found. It didn't feel like pee.

"Are you going to put your cock in me?" Mother asked me in her tiniest voice yet.

"I don't know how to." I admitted.

"Really?" Delight hinted at the edges of her surprise. Then she turned her sour, worried expression back on. "Are you sure? What about these fingers? They seem to know something." Her knees glued to the kitchen linoleum, she looked down between them.

"Honestly," I nearly quailed, falling back into passiveness, "I-I was just l-looking." I pulled them away from her.

"Oh." She quieted. Her face lifted to mine and assumed a mere puzzled expression.

Nothing more seemed to be said, so I simply reached for my cock and began to pull on it. My naked daughter proved she would always be capable of surprising me.

"You want to cum on my tits, don't you!" And then without any prompting, she reached for her own breasts and held them up for me.

I jerked on my cock more rapidly.

My daughter leaned closer, her tits aimed right at my pee hole. She kissed me delicately on my elbow. "Does mommy love me?"

"I love you very much, daughter. I want to cum on you and prove that I would never hurt you with my cock. My cum isn't hurtful cum. It's loving cum. You'll feel the difference, I promise." Even at twelve, I was a pretty good, impromptu horse-shitter.

"Oh goody, mommy. I don't want nasty cum. I want your cum."

It was more than I could take and abruptly, I unloaded shot after shot of hot sperm over my mother's awaiting milk bottles.

"You're right mommy, it is good cum! It feels so warm and soothing, like lotion on my skin." Mother squealed with apparent, new-found joy.

I ran to fetch a cloth and dampened it with warm water. I also turned off the stove and left the black mess of eggs alone. Returning and helping her off the floor, I sat her at the table. My daughter watched me tend to her needs. I was very familiar with cum and thought she might change her mind as it began to congeal. I wiped it all away with the cloth. That meant touching and pressing my hands into her tits while I cleaned up my daughter.

My cock began twitching, first at the base, but enough blood filled it so that the twitch became all too obvious.

"Gosh mommy, you really like to play with my tits!"

"Um, yeah." I think I blushed.

"If only you didn't have a cock, then maybe we could play with other things."

My darling daughter's hands were pressed deep into her cunt. The 'innocent' cherub had been frigging herself while I washed her boobies.

Well, I did have a cock, and I wasn't planning on transforming it for any of my next lifetimes, let alone this one, but my cock seemed especially eager to find out about the 'other things' my mother/daughter had mentioned.

"Gosh honey, I wish I could make my cock as loving as my cum, but I don't know how."

The little girl, her full figured tits and cunt thatch foremost in my sight, dragged my attention to her eyes by simply waiting. They once again had transitioned from darling innocence to knowing adulthood.

"Calvin, love comes from the heart, not the cock." Then her eyes returned to Eden.

"I wish your mommy was as smart as my mommy" I told her.

"You are, mommy, much smarter."

We waited a long time in silence. I was trying to understand what it was about love that could make a hard cock, loving. Unfortunately, my cock didn't stay all that hard while we puzzled over each other's thoughts.

With a child's curiosity, my mother just reached out and took my cock in her hand. She cradled my balls and lightly squeezed sack and shaft. I grew instantly hard. That's when I remembered what love was all about.

"Honey, your mommy wants to give you her cock. Then you can show her how to make it loving."

Mother looked up at me - her eyes glistened like pools of sunshine.

"Now you understand everything, Calvin." My mother had returned. She stood up and hugged me, without releasing the bulging flesh in her hand.

"I will take good care of it. I promise." It was my mother who leaned down and kissed the tip of my cock. When she gobbled it into her mouth, I was sent straight to heaven, floating there with wings flapping to the rhythm of my mother's sucking. My balls jingled like bells, and choirs of angels sang. I was engulfed in clouds as white as the boiling cum she worked to near release.

She left me floating, pulling her face off of my hard on. "Honey, your mommy wants to give your her cunt. Then you can become my mommy for real." She pulled me from my chair, sinking her back to the floor. I followed her deep into her loins and sucked in the hot juices of her cunny. She writhed and rolled beneath me.

"Mommy, oh mommy!" Her hands drew me in tighter against her hairy pubic mound. "I'm going to cum, mommy. I'm going to cum!" But before she could, she crunched upward and clawed her hands along my back. Spinning on her ass, she climbed down my belly and found my cock, hard and ready to spew. Her mouth imitated mine and we sucked two orgasms out of our minds. Our bodies welded from heat and light. I felt her swallowing before I noticed the jolts bursting from my own center. Her cunt was like a lens to her erotic soul, and it focused me into her own climax, my own orgasm, that exploded our unity and ripped our souls free. We met disembodied, bodies shattered, and we rebuilt our sexualities from the pieces.

---

Forever after, my cock was no longer a part of me. It had become a part of my mother, which she tended like a shepherd. Her cunt became a part of me. Time passed, and mother and I reached a new understanding. We no longer played any games. We openly confronted each other with our desires. I eventually became her woman, and she, in time, became my slut. This way she could answer to God, that she had never become a lesbian, and I got myself the best piece of ass a church going, social reject would ever get.

One day, I wore her clothes for the rest of my life. My obsession with needing my mother's love was complete, and in every respect she became my little girl. That is until she began giving birth to our children. Then, her moral obligations turned her into a completely different mommy, but fortunately it was a mommy who could accept her son as the woman in her life.

Many years later, I asked my mother my last stupid question. "How are we going to explain us to our kids?"

"Don't worry, Calvina. We'll just tell them you're their aunt."

The End

AddFreeStats.com Free Web Stats in real-time !