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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Pictures Of Lilly
by Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
***
As realistic a story as I can write about a son's
sexual obsession with his mother, and of her way of
dealing with it, and her own dark secret. Told from the
son's POV. (F/m-teen, reluc, inc, rom)
***
Author Notes: As the author, I claim all rights under
international copyright laws. This work is not intended
for sale, but please feel free to post this story to
other archives or newsgroups, keeping the header and
text intact. Revision to the text (such as the basis
for another story) is acceptable as long as the
original author is given credit and the resulting story
is distributed free of charge. Any commercial use of
this work is expressly forbidden without the written
permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray
any person living or dead, nor any known situation.
This story contains themes of incest. It is meant for
adults only and is not to be read by person's under the
age of 18, or the legal age in the county/state/country
in which the reader resides.
If you would like a Microsoft Word, an RTF or a PDF
file of this story, please contact me at
MarciaR26@aol.com.
***
PICTURES OF LILLY
by
Marcia R. Hooper
(marciar26@aol.com)
Suggested by the Short Story:
Seducing Mom With Kisses
by Roderigo LaBloke
(rogo99x@aol.com)
"I'd really like to give you something extra special
for your birthday," said Mom. "But I don't know what
yet."
We were in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. I had
an idea what I'd like to suggest for my eighteenth
birthday, but I wasn't foolish enough to say it.
"Socks are fine," I said, handing her a glass to put
away. "I can always use socks."
"Socks my ass," she said, my exact wish.
For years now, since I had first gotten my first hard-
on, I had craved after my mother. Obsessed over her is
a better word. Once a week at least, I'd lay in bed at
night, cock in hand, slowly stroking myself to mental
images of kissing her, undoing her brassiere,
unbuttoning her blouse, unzipping her pants. A thousand
times I had made love to her in my fantasies, (oddly, I
had never once dreamed of us having sex, not that I can
remember), fondled her bare breasts, kissed the side of
her neck, slipped my fingers into her wet inner
reaches...
I coughed, and concentrated on drying the dishes.
"Eighteen is such a special birthday," she said,
leaning back against the counter. "There has to be
something you really want."
If you only knew, I thought.
Mom was thirty-six years old, exactly twice my age. She
had a few strands of gray in her blonde hair and her
waist and hips were no longer those of a teenager; but
she was still quite hot for a mother. An honest to God
MILF, if you know what that means. She stood 5'7" in
her stocking feet, weighed in the neighborhood of a
hundred and forty-five pounds, and stuck out there
pretty good up top. And she had a wonderful ass.
I looked into her ice-blue eyes and smiled. "A hug and
a kiss and I'm yours," I said.
Laughing, she pushed away from the counter and took me
by the shoulders. A quick dart in to land a kiss on my
mouth, and then a tremendous hug and she backed away
again. "You're too easy," she said. "Think of something
else. Something extravagant."
She stood with her hands on her hips, head cocked
slightly to one side, wonderful looking in a western-
cut blue shirt and blue jeans.
"I don't need extravagant," I said. And to my absolute
amazement--and horror--I told her what I did want.
She blinked. Her smile waned. "Excuse me? Did I just
hear you right?"
"A kiss," I repeated. "An honest to God, for-real
kiss."
She shook her head. "What kind of present is that?"
"The perfect present," I said.
She was silent a moment. "You're serious? A kiss?"
"An adult kiss," I said. "The kind a man and a woman
would share."
"I'm not a woman. I'm your mother," she said, and we
both laughed nervously. After a pause, she went on.
"Why would you want to kiss your mother?"
"I have an Oedipus complex."
"Don't joke about that."
"I'm not joking," I said. "I told you what I wanted and
you can decide if it's what you want to give me. I
won't be upset if you don't," I lied. "I'm a big boy
now."
She tapped her foot worriedly on the floor. "A big boy
asking to make out with his mother." She crossed her
arms, a classic defensive gesture. I had the feeling
I'd just alienated her for life. "Do you know how this
makes me feel?" she asked.
Frustrated and angry? Ready to yank your hair out?
"I don't want you to feel put out," I said. I'm just
asking."
She blew air out the corner of her mouth. "Whew. This
is unnerving. I never thought . . ."
"Never thought what?" I asked.
"Never mind."
I turned away. "Get me some shirts or something then. I
don't care. An iPod would be nice."
She moved up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder.
"You're an adult now, Peter. I'm an adult. Adult's have
certain responsibilities. We can't go doing things on a
whim because the moment struck us. And that's what it
is, just a moment."
I turned back to her. "In two weeks I'm gone. Out of
the state. I'll see you, what? Once or twice before
Christmas? Thanksgiving? And we're talking four years,
Mom. Who knows where I'll be after that. Dad wants me
to move out to the West Coast with him."
She flinched, and I regretted having said that.
"Anyway," I went on, taking her hands in mine. "What's
a little kiss, between friends?"
She smiled and touched my cheek. "You are so full of
it, young mister." She sighed, and crossed her arms
again. "Okay, so say I agree. When do you want to do
this?"
"My birthday's not until Wednesday," I pointed out.
"You expect me to wait till then? Worrying about my
schizophrenic son? I think not, young man."
I shrugged. "Right here in the kitchen?"
"Well, it won't be in my bedroom," she said
caustically. "Right here. Right now. Or you'll get your
iPod."
She didn't wait for an answer. Stepping up to me, she
slid her arms around my neck, lifted her face and
waited for me to kiss her. I closed my eyes and put my
lips to hers and experienced the warmth and sweetness
of the woman that was my mother. It lasted perhaps ten
seconds and then she stepped back.
"Well?" She hadn't parted her lips, but I felt like I
had French Kissed her for hours. My heart galloped.
"Swell," I croaked. "Just swell."
"Then we're finished?" She tilted her head again.
I tried to remember if her breasts had been against my
chest. I couldn't recall. I couldn't breath.
"If it wasn't what you wanted, Peter, just tell me."
She smiled grimly. "If not, we'll do it again. Can't
stand to have you thinking I gipped you."
No one moved. No one said a word. Then, hesitantly, we
closed the distance and her arms reclaimed my neck, my
arms encircled her waist, I drew her hard against me,
experiencing her entirely this time: the bulge of her
breasts, the feel of her ribs below them, her hips
where them pressed against my thighs. Her lips parted
slightly and I felt the tip of her tongue.
"Mnnnnnmmmm," she moaned. Then she lurched away,
swiping the back of her hand across her mouth. "How did
I get myself into this?" she croaked. Her eyes were
bright and a flush had spread from her chest all the
way up to her hairline. Her chest rose and fell
sharply. I realized it wasn't the kiss that had scared
her away.
"Sorry," I said sheepishly. I didn't look down and she
kept her eyes safely on mine, but both of us were
thinking about that bulge in my pants.
She said, between labored breaths: "A mother should
never do that to her son." With that she turned and
stomped from the kitchen.
***
The next day, Monday, I worked. I got home at six p.m.
and found her in the kitchen, chopping up celery. The
rest of the salad was on the counter top, in various
stages of disassembly.
"Can I apologize for last night?" I asked.
"For what?" she said, noncommittally.
"For being an asshole."
The knife went whack-whack-whack on the chopping board,
spitting out thin slices of carrots. "Why? Did you do
something?" she asked in a detached tone.
She was dressed in khaki shorts and a sleeveless white
cotton shirt, with an apron about her middle. I walked
over and stood behind her and put my hands on her hips.
"No!" she cried, and then suddenly she was in my arms
and her mouth was attacking mine, and I didn't care
that somewhere behind my back a knife was waving about.
I cared only for her lips, her tongue, and those big
soft breasts against my chest.
"Mnnnnn," she moaned.
I slid my hands up her back and let my left hand drift
back down until it rested at the small of her back. Her
stiffening told me that it had better stay there. But
she didn't break the kiss and it when it did end, we
were both breathless.
"This is getting too serious," she murmured. She
remained in my arms, her arms still about my neck, her
forehead against my chin. Then she straightened and
looked pointedly at the kitchen window, through which
could be seen the backside of the high school and the
playing fields.
"You should be out there playing soccer," she said,
nodding at the knot of teenagers chasing after a ball.
"Not in here seducing your mother."
"Is that what I'm doing?" I asked.
"Aren't you?" she demanded.
"I'm just trying to get my birthday kiss," I said.
"Fuck you," she said, pushing me away. "Now get out of
here so I can finish dinner."
***
A little after ten o'clock she appeared in my bedroom
doorway. There was a book in her hand and her reading
glasses were pushed up in her hair. She still wore the
khaki shorts and the white blouse, although the blouse
now sported a trio of spaghetti stains that marred its
white crispness. She looked, if not depressed, then
emotional. She leaned against the door jamb.
"What's up?" I asked.
"I want to talk to you."
"About what?"
"You know what."
The set of her mouth had an angriness to it. I turned
from my computer and leaned back in the chair. "Okay,"
I said. "Let's talk."
"What exactly do you want from me, Peter?"
I looked down at my hands, began worrying at a
fingernail. "That's difficult to explain, Mom."
She stood erect and crossed her arms. "Do you know,
that when you kissed me this afternoon, that I haven't
been kissed like that since my honeymoon."
I felt absurdly pleased and acutely embarrassed at the
same time. "Thanks," I murmured, feeling my face go
red.
She shook her head and walked down the hallway to her
bedroom. Her door slamming shook the entire house.
***
The next day, Tuesday, the day before my birthday, I
came home to find her in the basement, starting a load
of laundry. One baleful look told me that I should go
back upstairs. I left her a note on the dining room
table saying that I'd be back for dinner and ran out to
Blockbuster for a tape.
At dinner, there was barely a word spoken. After we'd
finished she told me to go away, that she'd do the
dishes herself. In the past four years, ever since she
and dad had split up, this was the first time we hadn't
shared kitchen duties, or if not, that I hadn't given
her the night off. I went upstairs, feeling like I'd
sunk with the Titanic.
"This is bullshit," I said at ten o'clock. I got up,
turned off the TV and paced the bedroom back and forth.
Sampson the cat sat eyed me from atop the DVD player. I
glared at him and he gave me a stare that would freeze
water at eighty yards. At ten-thirty I went downstairs
to have it out with her.
She was on the couch in the living room, her Stephen
King novel propped against her chest, the reading
glasses on her head. She was asleep and breathing
restfully. I immediately felt my anger drain away.
"You are so beautiful," I whispered.
She wore beige satin pajamas beneath her robe. The
pajamas were from Victoria's Secret, and I had admired
her in them before, which was probably the reason for
the robe tonight. In these particular pajamas you
either wore your underwear, or you might as well wear
nothing at all. I sat down on the arm of the couch
opposite her and just watched.
When I was twelve, I found an archive on my dad's
computer that I never should have seen. It was
encrypted, and although it took me a month to crack the
password--mom's goddamned name spelled backwards--I was
driven by my hormones to keep with it until I won. The
name of the archive was not cryptic at all: Lilly
Naked. Lilly is my mother's name.
The archive's contents were hundreds of JPEG files.
Some were shot from his digital camera, but twice as
many were images scanned from Polaroid's, and actual
lab-developed photos. (I guessed later on that he had
found a photo-processing lab in some magazine that
developed and printed personal pictures, word unsaid.
Not sight unseen, because I've also heard that
thousands of pirated personal photos showed up in
USENET newsgroups back in the mid-to-late nineties,
before digital took over the world.)
There were pictures of mom all the way back to her
teens, before I was born. A couple dozen, I think,
would have gotten dad busted for possessing child-
pornography--married to the lady or not. They
chronicled mom's development from a very early teen to
a full-breasted high-school senior. Four of the
pictures showed her posing nude along with my Aunt
Margie, a year her junior.
Do you understand my obsession?
"I have your pictures," I whispered to her. She
stirred, and the book slid two inches down her chest,
but she didn't awaken.
"Every one of them is on my computer," I informed her
softly. "Locked up just like the day I found them, in
an encrypted file." The file was no longer called Lilly
Naked, however. Anyone seeing now it would pass it up
as a system file.
I slid down off the couch arm and onto the cushion. She
stirred again, but the book lost no further ground down
her bosom. I folded my legs beneath me and crossed my
arms over my chest and just sat there, content to stare
at her.
"Sweetie?"
I jerked awake.
"What are you doing down here?" she asked.
My legs were asleep and so were my eyes. It took a
second before they would focus on her. She stood bent
over me with one hand holding the book, the over
holding her reading glasses. Her robe was parted just
enough to show me the swell of her white breasts. The
hand with her glasses was on my shoulder.
I unfolded my legs and put my feet on the floor. "Man,"
I said, groaning. Pins and needles in my hip joints.
"How long have you been down here?" she asked.
Images of her smiling hugely, dressed in only her
fingernail polish and ponytail holder refused to let me
think. "Uh . . , since around eleven, I think."
"You were snoring," she said with a tiny grin. "You
woke me up."
"I don't snore," I said. "It must have been the
refrigerator."
"Then I'll have to get the refrigerator replaced," she
said, "because it's snoring too loudly."
My right calf had the charlie-horse from hell. I rubbed
at it but it refused to go away.
"Here," she said, and sat down beside me. Before I
realized she had intentions of anything else other than
massaging my calf, she had leaned in and placed her
lips against mine. I swept her into my arms, leaned
back against the couch arm, stretched out with her
laying atop me. Her arms went around my neck and we
were making out like a couple of teenagers.
"Mnnnnn," she moaned desperately. My erection was
ferocious and she rubbed fiercely against it. She
straddled me with her thighs and rode me with her
genitals directly atop my erection, her back arching
and her tongue down my throat. I had never had any
female, older or younger than myself, react so
violently to a kiss. She tore her mouth away suddenly
and her head twisted back until I thought the tendons
would snap. She was coming, riding an intense orgasm.
"Oh God, Michael!" she cried out. "I love you!"
I woke up gasping.
"Who the fuck is Michael?" I said angrily.
She was sitting bolt upright, blinking in confusion,
book fallen to the floor and her glasses dangling in a
hank of hair. I must have given her a heart attack, I
thought.
"I--I don't know any Michael," she stammered. Then she
realized where we were and some of her confusion died
away. She untangled her reading glasses from her hair,
set them aside on the end table and closed herself up
tight in the robe.
"What are you doing down here?" she asked.
I snapped: "Didn't we just through this?" My hips ached
hugely and I dreaded unfolding my legs.
"You don't have to talk to me like that," she said
angrily. "No one told you to come down here."
"I didn't come down here," I said stupidly. "I just . .
. never fucking mind."
She glared at me, her mouth a severe, lipless crescent,
her face blotchy and red. She wanted to speak, but
didn't trust herself to remain civil. I should have
followed her example.
"You're nothing but a fucking tease," I said.
"What?"
"You get me all hot and bothered and then go fucking
crying out for some guy named Michael."
She was incredulous. "Are you insane? You're talking
about a dream? What kind of fantasy world do you live
in, Michael?"
"My name's not Michael!" I screamed at her and she
slapped me.
***
It was half-an-hour later. We had both calmed down. I
had explained everything to her: the pictures, the six
intervening years of obsession, the dream I'd just had.
"I honestly don't know any Michael," she said. "None
that I would cry out for in lust, anyway." She touched
my forearm and then rubbed it lightly. "Honestly,
Peter. What are we going to do with you?"
"What are we going to do with us?" I corrected sadly.
She sighed, looked away for a moment, then up at the
clock.
"Happy Birthday," she said.
"What?"
She nodded at the clock. "Eighteen years ago, I was
screaming obscenities at your father and beating him
with my fists."
"What's changed in eighteen years?" I asked.
She laughed. "Nothing much." She placed her hand back
on my forearm and rubbed it slowly up and down. "You
are more like him than a clone would be," she said. Her
hand left my forearm for my hair, which she ran her
fingers through gently. "I just wish you hadn't found
those damned pictures of me. It's amazing you haven't
grown up schizophrenic."
"Who says I haven't?" I asked.
She laughed lightly. "It would explain a lot."
She got up and crossed to the end-table lamp and turned
it off. The only illumination came from the stairs
leading to the second floor and what shown in through
the windows. She sat down next to me and took both of
my hands in hers.
"How do I reconcile this?" she asked. "Being in love
with my son?"
I just sat there, swimming in the depths of her
admission. "I don't think you can," I answered finally.
"No more than I can reconcile being in love with you."
"But it's so wrong."
"I can't deny that."
A car passed by outside and I swear I heard every tread
crossing the pavement. The refrigerator's compressor
kicked on, and roared deafeningly. The wall clock
counted the seconds off tick-tick-tick, loud enough to
shake the wall. We held hands and looked at each other
in the moonlight.
"This can't happen again after tonight," she said.
"It's been happening for years, Mom."
"That's not what I mean," she said, looking at our
hands.
I removed my right hand and slipped it carefully inside
her robe. She stiffened, but she didn't resist me when
I cupped her left breast. Her breathing quickened and a
mild shiver ran up her spine. I moved my hand up to her
shoulder and pulled aside the pajamas enough to kiss
the base of her neck where it joined the shoulder. She
moaned, and I kissed her up and down her neck and then
along the top of her shoulder to the point. A moment
later my fingers located the top button holding
together the front of her pajamas, and one by one I
unbuttoned them. I reached inside.
"Don't!" she said, grabbing my hand away from her
breast.
I let her hold it away. "I won't do anything you don't
want me to," I told her.
She let go and drew her robe closed around herself,
clutching it together at the top with her right hand.
"I'm not ready for this," she whispered hoarsely.
But she was ready for it, I knew, reacting only from
inertia. I couldn't blame her for that; her son had
just bared her breasts. But then she surprised me by
leaning forward and finding my lips with hers and
kissing me hungrily. Within seconds her lips had parted
and her tongue flicked inside my mouth, searching for
mine. I kissed her deeply, our tongues performing a
slow dance.
"I am so Goddamned aroused," she moaned when we broke
the kiss. Her forehead was against mine and I felt her
breath on my mouth. It came and went in shallow gasps.
She squirmed, and groaned, and I knew that she was wet
between her legs. It had to be a terrible embarrassment
for her, but it made me want her even more.
I took her hands and very deliberately placed them at
her sides. I pulled apart her robe, the front of her
pajamas top and pulled them down to her waist. She
shuddered violently, gasped in a ragged breath, but
didn't fight me. Instead, she withdrew her arms from
the sleeves and put them around my neck again and we
kissed. There was no resistance when I put my hand on
her warm breast.
"Are you all right?" I asked after some time.
Her breathing, if anything, was more reedy. She placed
my mouth back on her left nipple, which was immensely
hard, and as long as the tip of my little finger. I had
her against the couch arm and her robe was undone but
still beneath her; I hadn't bothered her pajama bottoms
yet. I had however, brushed the front of her pajamas at
the crotch and found them wet.
She moaned desperately, as though in sudden, awful
pain. I raised my head and she grabbed it between her
hands and dragged me up to her mouth. There was no
tenderness in our joining now, only starved, desperate
hunger. Our tongues battled to see which could farther
penetrate the other's mouth. Her fists gripped my hair
and I took two fistfuls of her own. We warred against
each other as only two people in love can war.
Suddenly she forced herself flat onto the couch,
dragging me down with her. She released her death-grip
on my hair and then, extricating her own hair, forced
all of our hands down to our groins where they engaged
in a frantic struggle to free her of her clothing. It
took an immensely long time to understand that she
wanted me to rip her pajama bottoms right off of her,
which I did, bellowing in triumph as the thin material
shredded in my hands. Then, not quite knowing how my
cock had come free of my pants, I plunged into her and
she answered with her own primal scream, cut off when
she buried her teeth into my shoulder.
I came in her in less than five seconds.
She came for twenty seconds more, then passed out.
***
This is all wrong, that's what you're saying. A mother
and son can never find a successful, post-coital
relationship, no matter how badly either or both may
want it. It's just not possible, you say. Mental strain
and feelings of guilt will drive them apart, probably
sooner, than later. And perhaps you're right. It's too
early to tell will us. But I can tell you this: We've
been together for nearly a year now, and we're still
happy.
Of course, not everything's gone well. Dad stopped
paying child support on my eighteenth birthday. The
college fund he'd been managing for eighteen years
turned up unaccountably short on funds; I now attend
the University of Maryland at College Park, instead of
Stanford University, his Alma Mater.
In short order, we realized that even the state's
meager tuition was more than we could afford. (Lilly's
never seen a dollar of alimony from the bum, even
though dad makes a cool two hundred-thousand plus a
year, against her forty-thousand). Soon thereafter we
moved out of our comfortable, North Potomac brick home
into a vinyl-sided, two-bedroom townhouse in Prince
George's County.
Still, we have it good. A month after my eighteenth
birthday, Lilly and I went shopping for a pair of
matching wedding bands, one of which I wear whenever
we're home, the other that she's taken to wearing all
the time now. Newlyweds! In spirit, if not reality.
Are we really happy? Most of the time, but we have our
ups and downs. Lilly, for instance, lost sixteen pounds
in the first two months, mostly from violent, recurring
sex, but also from not having time to eat. But she put
it all back on again, and then some, in the months
following. And the sex? It's not as frequent or as
violent as it once was, but hey, that's to be expected.
Where is she now? You can't hear her out in the
kitchen? Chopping up celery and bitching about how her
back hurts and how much she has to go pee? And how much
she hates having hemorrhoids. God, how she hates those
hemorrhoids.
Know what I tell her? Once every eighteen years is not
so bad for dealing with hemorrhoids, dear.
"'Easy for you to say,'" she counters, waving a knife
casually in my direction. "You're not the one they'll
give an enema to, not the one who'll practice breathing
for twenty hours straight, not the one who'll stand up
straight in the stirrups screaming for her mother when
the contractions come."
What about the risks? Isn't it dangerous? you say.
It is, but it happens more often than people are
willing to admit. And officially, we don't know who the
father is. Lilly went to a party back in August and
passed out in a stupor in the host's bedroom. In the
morning, she had no panties on and never found out who
took them. It was okay; she'd always wanted another
child.
Genetic damage? We've had tests done three times and so
far, everything's okay. She could have aborted it, but
Lilly says that life is too precious, even for a life
at risk.
The sex of the child? Well, we'll know in two or three
days whether he looks more like his mommie, or his
daddy.
We think we'll name him Michael.
THE END
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 47