© Copyright britslut 2006. No re-use allowed without permission.
I was sorting out the dirty clothes in the laundry basket, and came across a pair of my panties. I usually go for black cotton ‘tangas’ although sometimes I wear black lace ‘bikini’ briefs. Just because I’m 45 I don’t see why I shouldn’t look sexy - although to be honest no man has actually seen me in my underwear for a year or two. My only child, Robert, who’s 16, doesn’t count - or so I thought.
The panties in question were screwed up into a ball. I tried to open them out so they washed better and discovered that they were full of a white sticky mess. Now I’m not a prude but still it shocked me. I’ll try to reconstruct my train of thought:
1. They weren’t like that when I took them off. Although I occasionally get aroused and leak a little juice, this was more like a flood.
2. It was semen. I’ve seen enough of it - on my son’s sheets, for instance - to be sure of the identification.
3. No-one else male had been in the house, therefore it must be my Robert’s semen.
4. The dirty little pig! How dare he masturbate into my panties!
5. There was an awful lot of it. In my limited experience men didn’t usually produce as much as was glutinously clinging to the black cotton. So my fast-developing little boy was a veritable sperm factory, was he?
6. I wasn’t surprised that he masturbated - in fact I would have been surprised if he didn’t. But using his mother’s dirty knickers! What on earth was he thinking?
7. Actually the idea that he got aroused by my panties, and by association what they had been covering, amused me somewhat. Weren’t all boys supposed to fancy their mums - Oedipus or something?
8. A vision flashed into my head of Robert with my knickers wrapped around his erection, rubbing strongly, his body arched with tension as he spurted copiously and uncontrollably into the thin cotton. What fantasies would be spinning round his head at that moment? To my shame I felt myself grew hot and moist in my current, as yet clean, knickers.
9. He had put the soiled garment back into the linen bin without trying to clean it up. Did he think I wouldn’t notice? Or did he secretly want me to notice, want me to know that he had been masturbating into my underwear? What reaction was he seeking from me?
At this point I made myself a coffee and tried to think about other things. But the vision described above kept re-asserting itself, and my panties grew damp with shameful sensations.
Robert usually went to bed before I did, and that night, in the bathroom, I undressed and threw my knickers into the basket. I wondered what would become of them, whether I should say anything to him. If so, what? Perhaps it was a phase that would pass.
Perhaps it had. In the morning the panties were untouched, a pattern repeated for the next few nights. I decided that it had been a momentary aberration on my son’s part and that he was as ashamed of it as he should be.
However Saturday gave me another shock. I had gone into his bedroom to strip the sheets for the weekly wash, as normal. On doing so I discovered, at the foot of the bed, another wadded-up black ball. This one was still very wet - in fact it squelched when I picked it up. The horny little beast must have ejaculated into it that very morning, if indeed he had not also done so during the night. I realised with a start that I had lifted the wad to my nose and was savouring the smell of fresh male semen. My glands were automatically reacting to the pheromones and starting to produce fluid that threatened to leak out. I shivered and threw the panties down. What was I doing? Getting aroused by the smell of my son’s sperm - what sort of mother was I?
I wondered whether to say anything but couldn’t decide how to tackle it. Although we get on OK, we don’t converse all that much - our interests are too different. Some devilment in me decided to test him, to see how far he would go. On Sunday evening, preparing for bed, I took off my panties - black cotton tangas again - and laid them carefully on top of the pile of washing in the laundry basket. I had turned them inside out so that the whitish deposits in the crotch, caused by my more-than-usually-active secretions, were uppermost. I retired to bed. Robert was already in his room. Soon I heard his footsteps going to the bathroom. The toilet flushed and he went back to bed. Had he collected the soiled knickers and was even now lying there with them touching his erection, rubbing my sexual secretions onto his taut shaft, eventually pumping his load of boyish semen into the folds of cotton? I discovered that my hand had strayed to my crotch and was stroking my clitoris softly. With a sudden rush of shame I turned over and tried to sleep.
In the usual morning rush of getting off to school and work I forgot all about the puzzle, but I remembered during the day and the first thing I did on getting home was to check the laundry basket. Sure enough, on top, were yesterday’s panties, loosely crumpled, and full of thick white sperm. There was so much of it that some had leaked onto the clothes underneath. My god, he was copious! And bold - there was no way I could fail to miss it. So ... he knew that I had left the panties on view deliberately, and he had left them soiled for me to find. What sort of game were we playing?
The funny thing was that his behaviour towards me was completely normal. He didn’t look at me differently - in fact he hardly looked at me at all. It was annoying me, and I decided to bring matters to a head somehow.
That evening, after we had been watching TV for a while, Robert stood up and said he was off to bed. I took a deep breath and said, ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
He looked at me blankly. I stood up and reached under my skirt and slipped my panties off - very decorously, without revealing anything. I held them out to him, still warm. He took the scrap of black cotton, blushed, gave me a sheepish grin, and went upstairs. Well, that hadn’t got me anywhere, had it, I thought. I sat down again, unable to stifle the visions of him wrapping the thin cloth around his straining erection, my still warm and moist secretions smearing over his swollen glans, his back arched and hips pumping his cock into his fist until he gave a moan of climax and his hot spunk jetted into the waiting panties, almost bursting through the thin fabric with the force of his ejaculation ...
I had pulled my skirt to my waist, spread my thighs and slid my fingers between my soft, swollen and very wet lips. A vision flashed through my mind of his spunk splattering warmly onto my belly and thighs and hand. A rush of guilt and shame swept over me, and I stopped, pulled my skirt down and went to get a glass of water.
Lying in bed, trying not to thing about Robert masturbating, I decided that I needed to discuss the whole thing with someone. As it happened I’d arranged to go out the following night with a friend, Carol, who also has a teenage son who’s friends with mine. We’d swapped problems and stories before and I didn’t think she’d be shocked - in fact, knowing Carol, she might well find it hilarious. Nevertheless I spent a restless night, with long, angst-ridden wakeful spells. Several times I started to touch myself and then fought it back when fantasies of my son’s cock gushing sperm flooded my brain. I only dropped into a deep sleep as dawn was breaking.
I was woken by Robert touching me gently. ‘You missed the alarm, mum. I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’
Groggily I thanked him. What a treasure he was! I forgave him everything, even his activities with my underwear. Half asleep still, I tottered into the bathroom and had a cool shower, which left me tingling. I glanced into the laundry basket. Sure enough, there on the top were the panties I had given my son the night before, spread out blatantly. I picked them up. The insides were covered in semen, almost every square inch of fabric was coated with white globules. Some of it was still fresh – he must have performed his final ejaculation only an hour or so ago. My head swam, partly from the heady smell of maleness that rose from the sodden garment. As if in a trance I stepped into the panties and pulled them up my legs, shuddering as the cool stickiness touched my crotch and buttocks. I pulled them tight, the thick sperm squishing into my crevices. I leaned on the washbasin and breathed deeply, fighting down the urge to rub myself through the wet cloth.
I heard Robert shout goodbye and the door slammed as he went off to school. I was late for work, and spent the day in a dream, conscious of the panties slowly drying and sticking to my skin. What would my colleagues say if they knew that my own son’s semen was caked in my crotch? It didn’t bear thinking about.
We behaved perfectly normally that evening. I made Robert his tea – Carol was cooking a meal for me later – suppressing the urge to lift my skirt and show him the now stiff panties. I went to change, almost reluctantly peeling the knickers off before I showered. I put on a fresh bra too, a nice little lacy thing, and sheer black stockings and suspender belt, then a flimsy, clingy black dress. We planned to go to a club afterwards and Carol likes to dress up. The fiction is that we are on the pull and might get off with some hunks – but it hasn’t happened yet.
Robert was watching TV when I tottered downstairs in my heels. His eyes widened when he saw me all tarted up – normally I dress very soberly.
‘Think I’ll do?’ I asked.
‘Wow, mum, you look really s– … smart!’ His compliment was genuine and I’m sure he had been about to say ‘sexy’.
‘Thanks! I do my best. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ve got my mobile with me if you need anything.’
‘Don’t worry, mum. You have a good time. I’ve got lots of homework to do.’
I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and felt his lips against mine, wetter and more urgent than a son’s kiss is usually. My god, he was turned on by me! Despite myself I felt proud.
‘And stay out of my underwear drawer,’ I said as I closed the door, instantly regretting it.
Carol had cooked us a lovely meal and we washed it down with a couple of bottles of red wine. We talked mostly about our kids, as mothers do – she has Paul, who’s 16, and an older daughter at university. Paul was with his father that week. I told her, by way of introducing the subject, that Robert seemed to be masturbating a lot recently.
‘Tell me about it!’ she said. ‘Mine must be like a geyser. His sheets are as stiff as a board some mornings. I suppose they’re at their horniest at this age – just like us!’
‘Has Paul ever … well … shown any interest in you?’
‘Sexually, you mean? Oh yes. He’s forever trying to sneak a look up my skirt, or when I’m in the shower. Sometimes I tease him a bit, I admit. It’s naughty, but, well, I’m not getting much fun these days.’
Carol was petite and attractive, and I could understand that any red-blooded male might want to see her naked. What I couldn’t understand is why she seemed to have no luck in finding a new partner, either long- or short-term.
‘The thing is … oh, this is a bit sordid …’ I told her about Robert ejaculating into my panties, and even leaving them for me to find. Carol sniggered. I didn’t tell her than I had worn a soiled pair all that day.
‘It’s just a phase. Has he got a girlfriend? No, I thought not. Look, his hormones are churning around like a washing machine, and he’s got this sexy woman living with him – yes, you are sexy, Gina, though you may not realise it. He can’t shag her so he does the next best thing and shags her knickers.’
I loved her brand of pop psychology. ‘So you think he wants to … shag me?’
‘In his state he wants to shag anything that moves. But yes, you’ll do. You’re the closest female to him by a long way.’
‘Do you think Paul feels the same way about you?’
‘I’m damn sure he does. One day I’ll tease him a bit too much and he won’t be able to control himself.’
‘How would you feel about that?’ I was intrigued and had slipped unconsciously into psychiatrist mode.
‘Being shagged by my own son? Well, he is quite a hunk, isn’t he? And I’ve been going up the wall lately.’ She grinned and I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. ‘No, he needs to get a girlfriend. He had one for a while last month and didn’t look at me once. But she dumped him and now he’s leering at my tits again.’
‘Robert ought to get a girlfriend, I suppose. Not much I can do to help, though. Matchmaking was never my strong point.’
‘I’m surprised he hasn’t got girls tearing his clothes off! He’s gorgeous! He was round here the other day and I kept looking at him and thinking if I was 20 years younger ...’ She gave a little shiver.
‘Well, he seems to go for the older woman, so maybe you’d be in with a chance.’ This was a joke but Carol looked at me.
‘Maybe I would ...’ she murmured.
The conversation drifted on to other matters and the taxi arrived to take us into town. We went to a couple of clubs and had a good time dancing our socks off and fending off some of the most revolting males that I have ever seen. Eventually we called it a day and, tired and sweaty and slightly inebriated, we staggered to the taxi rank and finally got back to Carol’s for a last coffee. I was glad I had booked a day’s leave tomorrow.
Carol was scribbling a note and put it an envelope, then fetched a plastic bag.
‘I’ve been thinking about your predicament,’ she slurred. ‘See if this helps.’ She reached under her dress and slipped her panties off and put them in the bag. I noticed they were blue and lacy, very skimpy. ‘This is for Robert.’
In my alcoholic state I just took the bag. Back home I undressed, leaving my clothes scattered on the bathroom floor, had a pee and fell into bed and a deep dreamless sleep.
Which was broken by the alarm clock, which I had forgotten to cancel. I cursed, and then heard Robert’s alarm going off. I listened automatically for the sound of him getting up - unlike me, he had school today. When nothing happened for ten minutes I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown and went to wake him.
I stopped in the doorway of his room. My son was fast asleep, naked on his back. My clothes were all around him. He had put my panties - last night’s moist-with-sweat-and-female-secretions panties - over his head so that the crotch covered his nose: it looked ridiculous and faintly menacing. One of my stockings was blotchy with semen. My little black dress was bunched up over his loins, and I could see various whitish stains on it. I had no doubt that he had ejaculated into its folds repeatedly and copiously ...
On autopilot, I went down to the kitchen to make him a coffee, and noticed the plastic bag that Carol had given me. The boy needed help, I decided, and maybe Carol had some plan that would work. It was better than getting doctors involved. I took the coffee and bag up to his room, sat on the edge of the bed and shook his shoulder gently. The odour of sperm made my head swim.
His eyes widened in shock as he saw his mother looking down on him and realised that he was wearing her panties on his head. He whipped them off, blushed deeply and tried to find the sheet to cover his body. Unfortunately it had fallen onto the floor - fortunately for him my dress hid any erection he might have been sporting.
‘You overslept,’ I said, trying not to laugh at his embarrassment. ‘Drink your coffee.’
‘Thanks, mum. Did you have a good time last night?’ He was desperately trying to act as if everything was normal.
‘Yes thanks. Oh, Carol asked me to give you this.’ I left the bag on the bed and went before he died of shame. I lay on my own bed nursing a slight headache and listened to him showering and getting ready for school. When the house was quiet I swallowed a couple of paracetamols and inspected the laundry basket. My outfit was in there, loosely wadded. I inspected the dress - it was absolutely soaked in semen. The lad must have climaxed several times while holding it against his loins. In a daze I lifted the sodden fabric and pressed it against my face, feeling the cool slimy mess sliding over my cheeks and mouth, the heady smell filling my nostrils. I felt a sudden warm wetness between my legs. God, what was happening to me?
Still carrying the wet dress, I wandered into Robert’s bedroom. He had opened the bag and read Carol’s note. Her blue panties lay on the bed, as yet unsoiled by him. Maybe he was aroused only by my clothes, or maybe he wanted to save it for later. I picked up the note, but then put it down again unread. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what she had written to him.
I slipped my dressing gown off and pulled the wet, sticky, slimy dress over my head. It stuck to my bare skin. My son’s sperm was now smeared over my hair, face and body. I looked at myself in the mirror and whispered, ‘You dirty, dirty, dirty slut ...’ I lay on his bed, clutched at my pubes through the thin fabric, and felt an orgasm swelling in me.
The phone rang downstairs, shocking me out of my pleasure. I’m one of those people who can’t ignore the phone, and in any case the spell had been broken. I went to answer it and spent half an hour talking inconsequentially to my mother who was worried about a new washing machine she had bought, while the dress grew clammy and cold. That’ll teach me, I thought, and spent the rest of the day doing housework as a penance.
Robert came home from school and seemed more excited and jumpy than usual. He drank a pint of orange juice very fast and them disappeared into his room. Over tea he mentioned casually that he was going round to Paul’s for the evening. I opened my mouth to say that I thought Paul was with his father this week, but then shut it again. I already had a suspicion of what Carol’s plan might be, and this confirmed it. He shot off as soon as he could. Later he texted me to say that he was staying the night at Paul’s and not to expect him until after school the next day - he was always good at letting me know what he was doing. I grinned to myself.
The next morning Carol rang me at work.
‘Hi Gina!’ There was suppressed laughter in her voice.
‘Hi Carol. What have you done with my son?’
She spluttered. ‘What haven’t I done with him, you mean? Jesus Christ, Gina, it was amazing! Talk about stamina - he wouldn’t leave me alone! I’ve never had a session like that before ...’
‘He was good then?’ I felt obscurely proud of my boy.
‘Well, not at first ... a bit trigger-happy, as you might expect. But after the first few times, he got the hang of it!’
‘How many times ...’
‘Oh, I wasn’t counting! He’s like the Duracell bunny, you know ... and the volume! Like a fountain! He nearly drowned me.’
‘So is he coming round for more tonight?’
‘To tell the truth, Gina, I’m just a teeny bit sore, and that hasn’t happened for a long time. Maybe you should take over tonight.’
‘Carol! He’s my son!’
‘Who cares? He’s desperate to give you the best non-stop all-night shagging of your life, and let’s face it, you could do with it.’
‘Did he say that?’
‘Well, sort of. We chatted ... briefly ... in between shags. He’s got the hots for you in a bad way, Gina. I don’t think me or a girl his age is going to cure it. He called me mum once or twice ... when he was cuming.’
‘That’s what you’ll be saying when he gets his tongue in you, believe me!’
The vision of my son with his head buried in Carol’s crotch distracted me from what she was saying.
‘... got the hang of it after a while.’
‘I’ve got to go, Carol, the boss is on the prowl.’
‘OK, good luck.’
Good luck at what, I thought. Fending off my rampant son, or enticing him between my legs. I really didn’t know any longer which of the two options I wanted. But I had to choose quickly.
Robert was home when I got back from work. He smiled at me, suddenly seeming more grown up. There was a swagger in his walk and his shoulders looked broader. My little boy is no longer a virgin, I thought. He’s been inside a woman, tasted her juices, given her orgasms. He’s a man now.
‘Well?’ I said, amused.
‘Well what?’ he grinned.
‘How was she?’
His grin broadened. ‘She was great! It was amazing. She’s insatiable - I could hardly keep up with her.’ Interesting, I thought - Carol’s story was subtly different.
‘Thanks mum,’ he said, and suddenly hugged me. I hugged him back, feeling his muscles rippling. So he thinks I arranged it, does he? Well, no harm in that ...
It was a long time since I had had a warm masculine body in my arms, and it was having a distinct effect on me, son or not. I felt a warm bubble burst between my legs. I broke the hug and said, trying to keep my voice level, ‘I’m just going upstairs for half-an-hour, OK?’
Once in my bedroom, I flung off all my clothes and lay on the bed. I clutched at my pubes, two fingers of one hand seeking out my swollen clitoris in its slippery nest, fingers of the other sliding easily into my hungry vagina. I closed my eyes and gave myself up to fantasies which are too obscene even to write here. I came quickly, violently, flooding my hand.
I didn’t stop, continued to stroke my tingling clit and stretch my soaking pussy with my fingers. Another orgasm swelled inexorably and burst like an explosion deep within me. I was working on a third when Robert’s voice penetrated my erotic fog.
‘It’s OK, mum. Carol told me,’ he said softly.
I opened my eyes – he was sitting on the bed watching me tenderly. God, how long had he been there? Fortunately my hands covered my pubes, more or less.
‘Told you what?’ What secrets had they exchanged in their pillow talk?
My son was holding the panties which I had dropped on the floor. He held the crotch against his mouth.
‘You want to watch, don’t you?’ he said with a catch in his voice. I felt myself nod.
He unzipped his trousers and let his erection spring forth. I was impressed by its size and rigidity. Carefully he wrapped the panties around it, covering the head with the feminine-stained gusset. He gripped the shaft in his fist and began to stroke, very slowly, immediately lost in bliss.
I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and enclosed the black-cotton-clad head of his penis in my hand. It was hot and firm. Robert groaned and I thought he was going to cum, but obviously his many orgasms with Carol had reduced the pressure somewhat. He removed his own fist and I slid mine down his iron-hard column, squeezing it gently.
Both our gazes were riveted on the rigid flesh swathed in fabric, waiting for it to erupt. I stroked it with agonising slowness, feeling it swell and harden even more, heralding the imminent explosion, marvelling at its pent-up power. The panties slipped away from his glans, revealing the eyehole dilated and pouting, ready for the flood of semen to burst forth.
‘Oh mum,’ he groaned, and I felt his shaft quiver and pulse. The first jet of thick whiteness flashed like lightning, splattering onto my naked breasts. Further, equally copious gouts exploded from his straining erection, covering my stomach and thighs with white splashes. My god, there was so much of it, falling like warm rain on my dry hungry flesh.
Eventually he subsided to a series of little gushes that trickled over my fist. I lay back, and started to breathe again. My mind couldn’t contain the enormity of what had just happened. Robert’s could, though, apparently. He kissed me softly on the forehead and said,’Thanks, mum.’ I heard him leave the bedroom.
Within my swirling emotions of shame, excitement, guilt and disbelief, one thought stood out. There was no going back. Phase 2 had begun.
last modified 23 August 2006